


Under the Cotswolds Rose

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brotp, Epistolary, Established Relationship, F/F, Gardening, Gen, Historical Accuracy, M/M, Murder Most Foul, Post-Canon, Sunhats, Treasure Island Can Suck It, country living, teacups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9338921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: Captain Flint is dead, but James Matthews and his lovely daughter Eleanor are living in the Cotswolds and grow the most beautiful roses in Gloucestershire.  Meanwhile, John Silver does everything in his power to keep their secret from being unearthed.





	1. Box

**Author's Note:**

> This is my self-indulgent Eleanor & Flint brOTP love project. I'm starting to post it now before s4 canon happens and fucks everything up for me. As such, everything that occurs here is basically my own headcanon for what I suspect might happen on the show (I'm sure I'm wrong), sprinkled with TI references, and rigorous historical research (i.e. I Googled some stuff about some things).
> 
> I'd also like to thank Laura, Zoi, and Anette for being ridiculously supportive of this weird idea! <3
> 
> Welcome to the Cotswolds!

_3 July, 17--_  
_To: Mrs John Silver in Bristol, at the sign of the Spy-glass_  
_From: Mistress Eleanor Matthews at the Rose Cottage, Box, Gloucestershire_

My dear cousin,

I take this opportunity to send you word with your beloved husband, who is returning now after yet another vigorous visit with my dear Papa. Wish that I had been granted the luxury of laying eyes on you as well, but, as you know, dear Papa is very strict about such things and all but tells me to go to my room when such subject is even broached. 

So I remain, a prisoner here, in this paradise known as the Cotswolds. Who would have thought: dear Papa and I, alone in a thatched-roof cottage in the English countryside. With father tending his roses, while I tend to my herb garden. My herb garden has certainly grown since last I wrote to you, both above and below surface. One never knows when a nosy neighbor might need an invitation to dinner. Papa tells me to be more circumspect about such things, for even the trees in Box Wood seem to have ears. But in truth, they know nothing of what goes on here, at Rose Cottage. They would verily have the vapors if they knew even the smallest portion of it.

I am sending something from the garden back to Bristol with your husband. I hope you use it to buy yourself something beautiful. I hope that when you think of me, it is neither with rancor nor resentment. I get enough of it from dear Papa, as you can imagine. 

But it is beautiful here in the summer, cousin. The rolling verdant hills, the fields of lavender in bloom, even Mr Matthews himself tending to his roses. I wish one day you might come and see it for yourself. Be well.

With all my affection,  
Eleanor 

***

**3 Years Prior, Nassau, New Providence Island**

Eleanor Guthrie had been ready to die. She had made her peace with it. She had, after all, been living on borrowed time. What choice did she ever really have, bereft of choice? What hadn’t she done, clawing at the sands of Nassau with every tooth and nail left at her disposal? Clinging to it as a drowning man would to the smallest piece of flotsam. Nassau was no longer hers to cling to. Who was she without it but a wandering shade? Hardly worth noting, yet apparently still worth killing.

When the door finally splintered off the hinges, the treacherous gun she held in her trembling hand had misfired. It was as if the gods had at long last abandoned her to her fate. She did not need to look her death in the eye as the smoke cleared, and so she let her lids fall closed.

Until a familiar, gruff voice thundered above her head. “Eleanor.”

Her eyes flew open. “Flint?”

A blood-stained hand reached out towards her face and, for a moment, she could not be sure it wasn’t aiming for her neck, in order to wring it.

“Come with me. Now.”

Her own hand clasped into Flint’s, fingers crushed in a merciless grip, smeared with someone’s blood. _Whose?_ She had been trembling and ashamed of her own weakness. Could it be, after all this time, she still wanted to live?

“Where are you taking me?” she gasped, free hand clutched to the ribbing of her corset.

His gaze cut her as surely as steel. The pale line of his lips stood out in contrast to the russet hues of his beard. It too was smeared in someone’s blood, she noted.

“I’m saving your miserable life,” Flint hissed and pulled her along down the dark corridor.

***

**Box, Gloucestershire, 17--**

Summer in the Cotswolds had ever been a merry time of the year, and the Beehive Tavern and Inn had buzzed like it’s own namesake. The owner of the Beehive, at the time a certain Mr Creed, had just received a fresh shipment of grains and ale from Minchinhampton, and was making the rounds with cup in hand, in an attempt to glean what latest gossip afflicted their quiet village. 

In truth, hardly anything ever happened in Box. There was that one time that one of the Lusty boys, Alfred or Albert, who could keep track, was caught running around the Devil’s Elbow with the young Miss Wood, but scandal was hastily averted by a respectable marriage, and the sleepy village returned to doing what it did best: waiting for the next rainfall.

“Good afternoon, Miss Matthews,” Mr Creed tipped his hat to the daughter of the owner of the Rose Cottage. Beautiful thing she was, Eleanor Matthews. But with sad eyes. Aye, his own wife, old Mrs Creed, had pointed it out when they had moved in a few years back. Sad eyes, just like her own dear Papa. But Mr Creed supposed that was where similarities ended. Miss Matthews must have favored her mother in that regard.

“Good afternoon, Mr Creed,” the young lady smiled at him politely. 

“We have not seen your father around here in some time,” the proprietor of the inn continued, as he admired his customer with the eye of a man accustomed to appraising a guest. Her dress was certainly new. Expensive yet modest. Everyone said Mr Matthews had made his fortune as a tradesman in the West Indies, and one could occasionally see glimpses of this fortune in his beautiful daughter’s attire. But overall, the Matthews lived modestly, preferring to blend in, to the extent anyone could blend in at a place like Box.

“Oh, you know my dear Papa suffers from gout,” Miss Matthews replied with a smile. “It is an unfortunate ailment as it prevents him from being out in public, much to his chagrin. I will give him your best?”

“My best, of course, Miss Matthews, and please take a flagon of ale, as well. Newly arrived. Your father can toast my health from his rose garden!”

“Papa does keep the most beautiful roses in Gloucestershire,” the young lady replied with a wistful sigh. “Dare I say, in all of the Cotswolds?”

“One day, you must tell me his secret,” Mr Creed nodded jovially.

“His secret?” Miss Matthew’s eyebrows knit into a stern line.

“Of how his roses grow so bright and beautiful.”

“Oh!” she laughed. “Of course! Good day to you, Mr Creed.”

“Good day, Miss Matthews.”

***

It had all been Silver’s idea, of course. Hiding him in this Box. Of all the places in the world where James Flint - no, James Flint no longer, nor was he James McGraw - had thought he would end up, stashed in the English countryside in a cottage with a lush rose garden was _not_ at the top of his list. Still, Silver had a point, and as many of Silver’s points, this one had proven difficult to argue.

“No one will ever expect to find you there.”

“In England?”

“In the bloody Cotswolds. _James_.” Silver’s voice had acquired new ways of soothing Flint’s ravaged nerves. “You’ve always wanted to walk away from the sea and find peace. Can you name a more peaceful place than that?”

In truth, he couldn’t. Box was _ridiculously_ peaceful, as far as peaceful places went. 

“Still… Box. I might as well lie down and die.”

“Don’t think of it as a coffin. Think of it as a chest, in which I shall hide my dearest treasure.”

“You really are most full of shit.” Flint had smirked at the time, not willing to admit to his lover that he too was susceptible to the honeyed sweetness of his words.

As it turned out, it wasn’t just a metaphorical chest where Silver would hide his dearest treasure. The actual treasure - well, what was left of it - was also safely stashed away in the backyard of the Rose Cottage. Right in between the vegetable patch where Eleanor had started experimenting with turnips and the herb patch, overgrown in sage and thyme, as well as other plants, less suitable for human consumption.

Their adopted family name - Matthews - had also been Silver’s idea.

“St. Matthew is the patron saint of bankers and tax collectors,” he had said, fingers toying over the lustrous black pearls. 

“You think you’re very amusing, don’t you?” Flint had asked.

“You told me you would let me save you,” Silver had responded with a deepening frown, pocketing the pearls to pay for their upcoming sea voyage. “You told me you trusted me.”

“I do.”

“Then trust me to bury Captain Flint somewhere in the New World, while Mr Matthews takes high tea in the Cotswolds.”

“With his lovely daughter,” Flint had smiled.

“Excuse me?”

“I have a favor to ask of you, John.”

James had killed many men in his day. Some women too. He wasn’t above admitting that. He might be the kind of man who still rose when a woman entered the room, but he was also the kind of man who did not hesitate to take a woman’s life if misfortune or poor choices had tethered her to a man he deemed his enemy. Woodes Rogers had been such an enemy. By all accounts, Eleanor’s life should have been forfeit.

He understood Teach. Vane had been like a son to him. Vane had been like a brother to Rackham and Bonny. He understood perfectly why they wanted Eleanor dead. What he had not understood perfectly was why he had decided to stand in the way of their just vendetta and, like some angel averting the sacrificial blade, whisk her away to the English countryside with him.

He supposed it did not matter now. Teach and Rackham were… Well, if you believed in a better place than the Bahamas, then that’s where they were. And Anne Bonny was somewhere only one other person in the world knew about, and James wasn’t going to ask. That, of course, had not made the world a much safer place for Eleanor Guthrie to walk about in, no more so than it did for James Flint. But here - locked in a Box together - day after day, it did appear that they might have succeeded in doing the unthinkable.

They may have convinced the world they were dead. Perhaps, soon, they might give themselves permission to live again.

But not yet. James hadn’t forgotten the part Eleanor had played in Rogers’ game. 

“You told him about the Hamiltons!” he had hissed at her the first night they were left together, alone in the Rose Cottage. 

The next day, Eleanor would put out the advert for a maid and a cook. They could afford such luxuries. The next day, Mr Matthews would drag his god-forsaken ass to the small neighborhood church to pretend to be a god-fearing man and meet the neighbors. But that would be the next day. In the meantime, they had this moment that each one of them had been dreading for a different reason.

“I had no choice,” Eleanor rose from her chair.

“Of course you had a choice!” James had bellowed at her. “There is always a bloody choice!”

“If you hate me so much for betraying you, why didn’t you just kill me?!” she shouted back.

“Maybe I still will!”

They both stood facing each other, while choking back bitter tears. Out of habit, perhaps, James found himself better accustomed to hiding that fact.

“They were going to hang me, Flint…” Eleanor’s hand shot up to cover her own mouth. “Fuck! I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You should call me ‘father’... or something,” he muttered, suddenly confused.

“I can’t call you that. Surely, you must realize why.” She dropped back into a chair. “I promise, I’ll think of something more appropriate to call you.”

“You may call me James,” he’d said, deflated. “When we’re alone… like this.”

“I _am_ sorry,” she repeated, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’m sorry I told Rogers about the Hamiltons. I’m sorry I… I thought you were dead. And then you weren’t. And I’m _sorry_. About the war. About _Charles_. I’m sorry. My god!” She lifted her eyes towards the ceiling, the wooden beams there weighed down upon her like the boards of a scaffold. “I’m so tired of feeling _sorry_ , James.”

“You and I have both done things that we may never atone for,” James had said, overcome with a feeling all too close to pity. “I saved you to give you a chance. You have betrayed everyone close to you in your life, at one point or another…”

“That’s not fair!”

“But it’s true. Perhaps you will betray me again,” he continued. “Perhaps this has all been a mistake: saving you, bringing you back here. But perhaps, you will surprise yourself yet, Eleanor.”

“You should have killed me,” she said, resigned. “It would have been the smart play.”

“Perhaps I simply didn’t want to live in this Purgatory by myself,” James shrugged, his gaze softening as Eleanor once again rose from the chair.

“I am tired. I’ll say goodnight now, dear Papa.”

James laughed, despite himself. “You’re a veritable proper young lady, daughter dearest.” She lingered for a few moments, before grasping the rail that led up the stairs towards her room. “Eleanor.”

“Yes, James?”

It was so intimate, having her call him by his given name. Since he lost Miranda, Silver had been the only one to call him that. Yet, he had given her permission. He had saved her, and he had brought her here. Whether it had been for her sake or for some hidden agenda of his own that he dared not even admit to himself, it mattered not. She was his to keep now.

“You know, you don’t have to wear corsets if it’s just the two of us?”

“You miss my old West Indies style, dear Papa?” She smiled at him from the staircase, her hand landing against the boning underneath her bodice.

“I just thought,” he replied, quietly, “you already live in this cage. No need to stifle yourself in yet another one.”

That had been three years ago. And in all that time, he had not spoken to her again of the Hamiltons, and she had not spoken to him again of Vane. It was as if they had come to an unspoken agreement, where each one of them had shown the other their hands and the game had been suspended for the time being.

In that time, James had learned more than he’d ever wanted to know about roses. It turned out that he had a knack for horticulture. He still wondered what Miranda would have said, to see him on his knees in the dirt, checking for aphids. Roses needed constant care and were ravenous for nutrients. It had been awhile since Eleanor had had anyone for dinner, so he’d probably need to rely on manure for fertilizer. It was probably for the best. You can only have so many passing magistrates or landed gentry suddenly disappear before the authorities took note. 

Of course, they didn’t always disappear. Sometimes, they were allowed to return home from dinner, only to die suddenly of a mysterious disease that caused a lot of blood-vomiting and strange livid spots to form on one’s body. The locals would cross themselves and pray it was nothing contagious. 

“Good day, Papa,” Eleanor walked past the little garden gate and set her basket on the ground next to James. “Mr Creed sends his regards and this ale, fresh from Minchinhampton. The old lech.”

“And how did you tell Mr Creed I’m doing?”

“Gouty. Very gouty. Very sad, really, for a man of your age could still be so much more…” She eyed him up and down. “Well… robust.” James chuckled, reaching for the bottle in her basket and taking a long swallow of the warm liquor. “Do we need more fertilizer?”

“Don’t even start.”

“It’s a pity Cousin John left already.”

“Eleanor…”

“I never even had the chance to chain him to the sofa. For old time’s sake.”

James shook his head in fond exasperation. 

“Come inside,” she smiled. “I’ll have the table set for tea and fill you in on the latest village gossip.”

The Rose Cottage had started out being her cage. Was it still so? James wondered. For someone who had at some stage appointed himself as Eleanor’s jailor, he had begun to dote upon her far too much, almost as if she really had been his own daughter. “You’re growing senile, Mr Matthews,” Silver’s joking words from the past visit came back to James. “And soft in your dotage.”

Be it so, he was happy that he had brought Eleanor here. And that he didn’t have to live in this Box alone.


	2. Rose Cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cousin John comes for a visit and Eleanor plans a dinner party.
> 
> ~~~

_1 August, 17--_  
_To: Ms Eleanor Matthews at the Rose Cottage, Box, Gloucestershire_  
_From: Mrs John Silver in Bristol, at the sign of the Spy-glass_

Dear Cousin Eleanor,

What a joy it was to receive your letter upon my beloved husband’s return! Lost as he often is in his thoughts when he returns from visiting your dear Papa in the Cotswolds, he nearly forgot that he had been the bearer of your letter. I had found it among his things later, when going through our accounting. You know my darling John does not have the head for numbers. He does, however, have a keen eye and the gift of gab to rival the local preacher. And you and your dear Papa can be assured that should my husband spot any of those Damask roses your Papa is so taken with, that word would be dispatched to you as soon as feasible, even at the risk of our lives. My husband’s esteem for your Papa and his gardening skills remains as great as ever.

And what of you, my dear cousin? Wherefore should I feel either rancor or resentment towards one who stood at my side as an ally when our dreams crumbled around us? I am in no position to judge you; I understand you, and I understand the burden you must feel even now, living in close quarters with someone who no longer puts his trust in you. Still, I have seen what you and your Papa could accomplish when united towards a common purpose. I have no doubt that a day will come when he will relent and soften towards you, like the dutiful daughter you have been to him of late. Do not despair, dear Cousin. One day, we shall see each other again.

I remain affectionately yours,  
M. Silver

***

**Box, Gloucestershire, August 17--**

“I bought you a sun-hat at the market,” Eleanor tossed the package into James’ lap, as he sat reading under the apple tree. “You should wear it, lest you turn into one giant freckle.”

“Such tender concern,” James smiled crookedly without looking up from his book.

“Anything for dear Papa.” He still did not meet her eyes. “There’s a new weaver in town. Mr Sheppard. Young bloke, seems meek and mild enough. Mrs Wood was asking me to join her cross-stitching circle again, but I told her I had weak eyesight.” 

“Mhm.”

“A magistrate claiming to be from Minchinhampton came by here, on some excuse of doing a census. By the look of the salt on his boots, my money would be on Bristol. I told him I was twenty-two years old and that you were pushing sixty.” James did not move a single eyebrow at this news as well. “ _Thank you, Eleanor!_ ”

“Cookie for you,” her infuriating jailor muttered under his breath.

“Years ago,” she sighed, hands resting against her hips as she looked down on James’ seated form, “in that place we’re not allowed to name, I made some choices, _father_ dearest. But the choices I made were meant to keep myself and most of the rest of us _alive_.”

“What do you want from me, Eleanor?” James looked up at last, setting his book aside. “Some reward for doing the right thing that you should have been doing in the first place?”

“Something, anything but to the purpose!” she exploded. “I have to sit there every other month, watching you canoodling with Silver, while I am denied basic human companionship.”

“And yet, you and the young Miss Turner have been taking frequent trips to Box Wood.”

“So you _do_ pay attention to something other than the roses around here!”

James’ face was placid, like the sea after a storm. Just like the sea, who could even tell what lay beneath the calm surface. 

“This came for you,” James reached in between the pages of his book and handed Eleanor a neatly folded letter. “I had not opened it.”

“Well, aren’t we both just the fucking epitome of trust and familial duty,” she snapped the letter out of James’ hand and pressed it feverishly against her bosom, as if at any moment the thin parchment might evaporate in the summer heat.

Sometimes, Eleanor wondered whether Flint had not rescued her at all. Whether the door that had splintered before her in Nassau had actually revealed the towering form of Edward Teach. And perhaps all this was just her punishment in the afterlife: the eternal scorn of one of the men she had betrayed to save her own skin.

***

**Box, Gloucestershire, October 17--**

It had been the week of the apple harvest and the branches of the apple trees at Rose Cottage were pregnant with fruit. Soon the kids would come, their baskets to be brimmed over with ripe apples, ready to spill their juice into the press, and the village would overflow with cider. The leaves had already begun to turn, casting the woods and the trails into a kaleidoscope of reds, oranges, and warm, earthy browns. 

John’s hair spilled over the pillow next to James, dark brown against the auburn gold of his own hair, much longer now than in the final days of Captain Flint’s existence. Autumn had come to the Cotswolds, and there too, under the thatched roof of the Rose Cottage, autumn had fallen, bringing with it the cool relief of the sea breeze that John had carried in upon his clothes and upon his long, wind-tossed hair. 

If only for a few days every couple of months, the Purgatorial Box in which James lived would open up and John would peek in, and finally it would become clear whether James was dead or alive. His visits were like delectable bookends to a novel that was otherwise uneventful and unnecessarily long. A novel about some man named James Matthews, who tended his roses, read under his apple trees, and spent long nights arguing with his young, wilful daughter about whom to have over for dinner next.

“I should never have let you talk me into this,” James whispered against the warm skin of John’s neck. It was a dream from which James loathed to wake up.

“Don’t be so selfish, love,” John muttered back, his tongue still moving with the slugging lassitude that assailed his body in the early morning hour. “You would have gotten yourself killed and I simply could not live with that.”

“You’ve left me with nothing to do, except sit atop a buried treasure,” James groused, lips tracing the familiar column of John’s long and sinewy neck.

“Poor love. It must be killing you, not being in charge, having to live in peaceful retirement. Letting someone else protect you, for once.”

“I am suffering,” James smiled into the groove between John’s collarbones. “You should make it up to me.”

“I thought I did, as often as possible?”

“Right now?”

John’s fingers wound through the thick, bright strands of James’ hair. “What is it you need, my treasure?”

“I need you inside me,” James exhaled, tongue tracing the dark outline of John’s nipple as it hardened under his warm breath.

John had been wrong about one thing: James didn’t always have a problem with giving up control. He had rolled them both until the weight of John’s body settled over his own, dark curls falling down over James’ face as John’s slender hips slotted perfectly in between James’ spread thighs. John’s lips scalded the tender skin of his neck, kisses pressed over his Adam’s apple with reverence and tenderness that destroyed and rebuilt something inside James each time. He was alive. He was _alive_. And he could have this, as long as they both kept breathing.

***

“I have invited Mr Creed for dinner,” Eleanor informed James as he sauntered lazily down the stairs, feeling pleasantly sore in all the right places. “Don’t forget that your gout is bothering you, dear Papa,” she smirked, giving James a sideway glance that made him flush crimson. “Although I see you’re limping nicely already. It’s good of you to stay in character.”

“When you say you invited Mr Creed for dinner,” James began cautiously, “do you mean _dinner_ or just food?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Silver’s still here,” he reminded her, completely unnecessarily.

“Cousin John is invited to dinner too, of course. Unless you prefer he stay upstairs and we send Ms Hawkes up there with the leftovers.”

“Leave Ms Hawkes alone. She’s terrified of him,” James chuckled, remembering with much amusement the looks of despair their cook shot towards him the first time Silver ever came to visit. With his long hair and fierce mustache, not to mention the peg leg, the poor, honest woman needed to lie down and have her corset loosened.

“Well, I don’t blame her. You’ve _seen_ Silver, haven’t you? I mean, he doesn’t actually physically blindfold you, does he? Aside from that adage about love being blind and all that…”

James gave her a look that would have withered a lesser person. On the other hand, the blindfold idea wasn’t a terrible one and seemed exactly like the kind of thing his lover would be preeminently into. He filed it in the back of his mind, for later usage.

“You should talk. You were in love with Woodes Rogers, whose smug face was only half as grotesque as his bespoiled soul.”

“Are we really going to discuss my questionable taste in men as compared to yours?” Eleanor frowned and handed James a walking stick. “For your gout, Papa.”

James used to get out more. He made more of an effort when they had first arrived in Box. Everyone in the village had a kind word for the lovely but reticent Mr Matthews, and who wouldn’t have a kind thing to say about a widower who refused to remarry and his devoted daughter? Every denizen of Box from the Thyme Cottage to Box House itself knew the most important thing about the Matthews: they had money, and that alone afforded them the wide berth they seemed to generally desire, even though Mr Matthews had a soft smile for every child, and Ms Matthews was beautiful as a Rose of Provins in full bloom.

James had quickly gotten sick of their warm wishes and benign, cow-like stares. 

He missed the sea. If there were days when he had chosen to forget it, the whiff of sea salt on Silver’s clothes, or hidden in the loose strands of his curls, always reminded him.

It had been some time since Eleanor had seen fit to dispose of one of the neighbors. Their prior fertilizers had been loners, local busybodies with nothing and no one else to occupy them, homunculi who would not be missed. Besides, James would readily admit, when they had arrived in Box, they’d both had a fearful, haunted look about them, prone to arousing suspicions. Sometimes, suspicious folk needed killing. He could not imagine what ever would have made Eleanor invite the owner of the Beehive to dinner, but if she thought it warranted further investigation, he would not stand in her way.

“In case my suspicions prove unwarranted,” Eleanor had said, avoiding James’ eyes, “tell Silver to look less piratey for dinner?”

“I don’t know what that means,” James protested stubbornly. “You want me to take out his earrings?”

“That would be a start,” she sighed and removed herself to give the cook and the maid orders that James blissfully decided to ignore in favor of going back upstairs and climbing back into bed with Silver and both his adorable, pierced ears.

***

Mr Creed had a lot to say to John Silver. In fact, Mr Creed had a lot to say, in general, and on quite a broad variety of topics. When he learned that the Matthews’ cousin from Bristol was also in the hospitality business, he seemed positively transported. Silver, never having been bested by any man in the art of bullshitting, chatted the local dignitary up over a teacup with a Rosa Mundi pattern across the rim.

“More scones?” Eleanor offered thoughtfully.

“Thank you, my dear,” Mr Creed nodded and, grabbing a warm scone, turned his attention back upon Silver. “If I may be so bold, Mr Silver, you seem too young to have served in the wars. How did you sustain your injury?”

“My injury?” Silver’s eyes narrowed and James could feel his own upper lip twitch in irritation. 

“Clotted cream, Papa?” Eleanor prodded James, who had unclenched his butter knife and placed it back upon the embroidered tablecloth.

“Your leg?” Mr Creed proceeded undeterred.

“Oh _this_. You know, I’ve gone without it for so long, I almost forget it was ever there!” Silver winked at Eleanor and James’ hand instinctively reached for the butter knife again. “Well, sir, before I was a tavern-keep, I worked on a merchant ship. The Golden Vanity, she was called. And one day, my ship was boarded by pirates.”

“Oh my!”

“Captain Charles Vane - you’ve heard of him?”

“Heard of him!” Mr Creed exclaimed, clapping his hands. “Who has not heard of the fearful Captain Vane, more beast than man, and his reign of terror!”

“Hm,” James added, fixing Eleanor with a long look.

“That’s right, the fearful and terrible beast Charles Vane and his band of ruffians had taken over our ship when our captain was indisposed and I met with a little accident at the hands of Vane’s quartermaster.”

“How extraordinary! Yet, here you sit! Alive to tell the tale! I would not have thought Captain Vane and his men would have stopped at your leg.”

“Are you calling Mr Silver a liar?” James spoke in a soft growl that made the hair on the back of Silver’s neck stand up. He placed his hand gently upon James’ thigh beneath the tablecloth and fixed his bright, blue eyes upon the face of his interlocutor. 

“There was a swift change in circumstances and our crew came to my rescue, preventing further injury,” Silver explained cordially.

“You must’ve been very important on that merchant ship,” Mr Creed proclaimed, taking a sip of his tea.

“I was no one at the time,” said Silver.

“It is uncanny how there is no family resemblance between the three of you!” Mr Creed exclaimed, shoving the rest of the scone into his mouth.

“Oh, dear me!” Eleanor rose. “How silly of me, I had completely forgotten to serve the brand new apple cider!”

“Ah yes,” James chimed in, “our apple harvest this year was more abundant than we had reason to hope.”

“You too, dear Cousin,” Eleanor pressed on, tucking a loose curl behind her ear with a look of demure sweetness. “You must try the apple cider: it’s divine!”

“From your little hand, dear Cousin?” Silver grinned back at her. “I’d drink even poison!”

Mr Creed in particular found this pronouncement most amusing and clapped his hands together in an overabundance of enthusiasm.

“Aye, she is beautiful, your daughter, Mr Matthews. If you forgive the impertinence of my pointing it out. I wonder why you keep her unmarried? Or is it that you do not see a woman’s beauty? In her… I mean, on account of her being your daughter?”

Silver twirled his mustache and chuckled into his teacup. James gave him a barely perceptible shake of the head.

“Pass the clotted cream, darling… Uncle.” Silver’s eyes locked with James over the place settings.

“So, how long have you two known each other?” Mr Creed pressed, evidently throwing caution to wind.

“Why, Mr Creed, whatever do you mean?” Silver inquired sweetly. “I’ve known Uncle James my whole life - we are family.”

At that moment, Eleanor reappeared with a tray full of glasses. “Forgive me, Mr Creed. We have given the help the night off. Allow me to serve you.” 

She circled the table, handing everyone a glass, saving the last one for herself, which she then raised into the air in a toast. “Your health, Mr Creed!”

“And yours, Mistress Matthews,” the innkeeper saluted. “To England!” he declared, before taking a few long gulps of the refreshing beverage.

Then grasping at his throat, his eyes bulging wildly, he collapsed on the ground in one unwieldy, motionless mass.

Silver’s teacup shattered into pieces. “Jesus fucking Christ, Eleanor!”

“So clumsy, Cousin! Papa had that china imported from Bath,” she sighed, bending down to feel for Mr Creed’s pulse. “Oh dear, it appears poor old Creed has expired.”

“Hemlock?” James asked, unmoved.

“Wolfsbane,” she corrected.

“Enough to kill a horse, not just a wolf,” Silver muttered, eyeing his own glass with growing suspicion.

“If I was going to poison you, I would've put it on his cock,” Eleanor stated with an exaggerated nod towards James. 

“That would’ve poisoned my cock and the rest of me, too,” James pointed out.

“I do love dear Papa simply too much for that,” Eleanor grinned.

“Are you not going to explain yourself?” James finally rose. “He was… incautious in his questions, but was he a threat?”

“He’d been making inquiries about the two of you for nearly a year now.” Eleanor tossed her napkin to the floor, where it landed over Mr Creed’s livid face. “Each time Silver visited, he asked more and more questions. And besides, the two of you aren’t exactly the most subtle operators in the Cotswolds when you get together. It didn’t take much for him to put two and two together and smell sodomy.”

“I’ll get the ax,” James said with a resigned sigh.

“No, fuck that,” Silver held him up. “I’ll get the ax. You sit down and enjoy the scones and cider. Let someone else take care of the dirty work for once.”

“I was just about to harvest the turnips,” Eleanor stated wistfully. “The timing for tilling the soil could not be more perfect.”

“Don’t even think about sending any of that turnip back to my wife!” Silver smiled at her, tight-lipped, and vaguely terrified.

“Why on earth not? Everyone in Box will tell you - the best vegetables come from our garden!”


	3. A Murder Most Foul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an old enemy returns and a horse is discovered missing.
> 
> ~~~

_20 October, 17--_  
_To: Mrs John Silver in Bristol, at the sign of the Spy-glass_  
_From: Mistress Eleanor Matthews at the Rose Cottage, Box, Gloucestershire_

Dear Cousin,

I’m sending you some brussel sprouts from our garden because your beloved husband refused to accept any root vegetables. For a man of his checkered past and uncertain future, he sure does exhibit some moral peculiarities. Although I did find him to be rather handy with an ax when the firewood needed to be tended to. I rest easier every day knowing that you are in such capable hands. That is, after all, what you have always wanted, dear Cousin: a place or a person to call your own, who would protect you, and not turn from you at a time of peril. I wish I had been such a one. It is a blessing that you and Cousin John found each other again when you did.

I confess, seeing your husband and my dear Papa together does always make me long for your company. Wish that I could look upon you as he looks upon Papa. I wonder what kind of dresses you are wearing now and how your skin would feel beneath the layers of petticoats that you must don to protect against the Bristol chill. I wonder how you wear your hair these days and whether it would feel the same running my fingers through it as I once did when we were younger. I wonder how your eyes look in the English sunlight and do they smoulder the same way they would underneath the Caribbean skies.

Does your husband read my letters, Cousin? My Papa used to read yours for years, but recently it does appear as if he has relented. Perhaps one day, my dream of seeing you again will come true. In the meantime, know that you are never far from my thoughts.

Hopefully yours,  
Eleanor

***

**Bristol, November 17--**

The rain had not stopped for days. It made John Silver’s leg hurt something rotten, or rather, what was left of his leg. As much as the pain had been ever present in the Bahamas, there was nothing quite like the chill of English November weather to remind him once and for all why Flint had risen up in arms against this place. Or something to that effect, anyways.

Only an eight or so hours of traveling by wagon away lay his own heart, hidden in a box, buried beneath an apple tree, like in the fairy tales of yore. Only eight hours away, the lips he could kiss for days and never grow tired of awaited him, arms that could hold him until he turned to ash would open up to him, and welcome him. 

Would they welcome him still if James knew what Silver had been hiding from him? Woodes Rogers out of debtors prison, and in Bristol. Woodes Rogers at his own fucking doorstep, with his scar looking more gnarled than ever, yet with the scars on his soul deeper yet after what had gone down in Nassau.

“Pew,” Silver called out under his breath and the man in question materialized beside him as if conjured out of the cold, misty air. “Get me Anderson. I’ve got a job for him.”

How much did he know, fucking Rogers? What would he say and to whom? It was too big of a risk going to see him personally. Silver had been good at contriving disguises back in his more youthful days, but it was damn difficult to disguise missing an entire appendage. Anderson may not have been a genius, but he was more clever than most of his ilk. 

Not for the first time since coming to Bristol, Silver wished things with Billy Bones hadn’t gone entirely tits up in the end. He could have used Bones’ help in a sticky situation like this one, requiring finesse and a great deal of creativity. But even if their old First Mate had appeared on the threshold of the Spy-glass and extended his hand in eternal friendship, there was no way in hell Silver was trusting him with something as sacred as James’ safety. He’d rather cut off his own fucking other leg.

Anderson would have to do. After all, all Silver really needed from him was to ask Rogers scripted questions and then write the answers down as faithfully as he could.

A small hand tapped him on the shoulder from behind.

“Hello darling,” Silver gave his wife a small peck on her cheek. “You look ravishing, as always.”

“Will you post this letter for Mistress Matthews?” she asked, handing him a daintily folded billet.

“Darling, Mistress Matthews poisons people for sport. I do not think a proper lady such as yourself should be keeping up a correspondence with the likes of that menace.”

“Fuck yourself, sweetie. Will you post it?”

“Of course.” He took the billet and placed it into his inner pocket. “I’ve half a mind to hand deliver this.”

“I’m sure you do.” Mrs Silver laughed, and turning smartly, resumed her rounds of the tavern.

***

**Box, Gloucestershire, November 17--**

_And so it came to pass that Captain Flint and Long John Silver had that motherfucker rightly keelhauled - twice, for good measure, for all the grief he had caused them. And after the fish and the seagulls have feasted upon his rotten fuck carcass, Captain Flint went to his knees and sucked Long John Silver’s cock with all his might - which was substantial. And they remained Pirate Kings together and sailed the seven seas happily ever after until they both died, at the same time, in their sleep._

In the beginning, James had thought it had been merely a joke: the little stories that he’d always find tucked beneath the mattress, under the pillows, folded around his gardening trowel after Silver would head back to Bristol. At first, they were just short tales of piracy and seafaring, unsurprisingly bloodthirsty, considering their provenance. James shook his head over them and burned them in this fireplace, making sure to poke at the ashes sufficiently so that no skilled hand at necromancy could resurrect those words to come back and haunt him. But as time went on, and he found the stories changing in tenor (if not in bloodthirstiness), he caught himself being less and less inclined to burn them, and actually considered hiding them somewhere instead. Perhaps in the same chest that was buried in the back of his garden. For these little stories too were treasure: glimpses into Silver that James would otherwise never have, because as much as his lover was a big talker, there were some things he could never bring himself to say aloud. Things like “they sailed the seven seas happily ever after until they both died, at the same time, in their sleep.”

Is that how he wanted to go? In his sleep, at the same time as James? But John was a good fifteen years his junior; it seemed a waste to cut such a life short in such an insignificant fashion. Besides, the Grim Reaper, for all his posturing, had shown his ass to James too many times to count on his way to reap some other unfortunate fuck.

The paper in his hands was as much a declaration as Thomas’ inscription in _Meditations_ had been. He could no more burn it than he could have thrown the Emperor’s tome into the ocean.

“I love you, too,” James found himself saying, folding up the rumpled pieces of paper and pocketing them for the time being.

***

The village of Box was all astir with the disappearance of Mr Creed. Poor Mrs Creed, on her return from visiting her relations in Bath, was shocked to discover her husband gone without leaving any instructions for her or any of the help. Why only the other day, so many had seen the innkeeper! So many had spoken to him! Even the Matthews girl had said she had invited him to dinner, but was shocked when he never arrived.

“I would have sent Ms Ames or Ms Hawkes over to check on Mr Creed for we were worried something might be amiss with him,” she had said, all aflutter with emotion, “but we had given them both the night off and my Papa wasn’t feeling well, so I dared not leave him alone lest something befall him!”

“Of course not, dear,” sweet Mrs Creed reassured the much distraught Eleanor the best she could, whereas it was Eleanor’s duty to try and do the same for the bereaved widow. Not that the dear lady realized her fortune just yet, but she had just become the most eligible bachelorette in Box, after Ms Matthews herself.

“Oh Mrs Creed, you do not think that he had been in trouble with the law, do you?” Eleanor exclaimed, acting perfectly appalled at her own idea. “Why else would he disappear like that, in the middle of the night?”

“His horse is missing too,” the Creeds’ next-door neighbor Mr Wood had pointed out, supportively. Eleanor, of course, had known exactly where Mr Creed’s horse had gone. It was attached to Silver’s wagon and shuffled off to Bristol, with Silver’s other horse and her brussel sprouts.

“A man and a horse, both missing! And not a word! No, no, my Geoffrey would never have ridden off into the night like this,” Mrs Creed protested. “Something else must have happened!”

No one in the gathered assembly dared to say it, forcing the unsuspecting widow to put words to the deed herself. “A murder most foul!”

A loud, communal gasp tore from the denizens of Box. Had pearls been the fashion of the day in the village, they would have certainly been clutched. In the meantime, Eleanor thought it would behoove her to swoon and pretended to fall insensate at the feet of Mr Sheppard, the newly arrived weaver.

***

Inquiries had been made. A messenger was dispatched to Minchinhampton. The local authorities, not counting themselves well equipped to handle the developing situation, had written to Bristol, a place far better known for mysterious disappearances than a sleepy place like Gloucestershire. From thence came an inspector and, in a day, Box was turned upside down, and all the evils of the world came spilling out upon the cobblestones of the main thoroughfare.

“This did not happen the last few times we’d invited someone for dinner,” James groused.

“Who knew Mrs Creed would’ve been attached to her husband enough to raise such a ruckus,” Eleanor shrugged. “People go missing all the time! Do you remember when it had happened to that whore Charlotte and one of your men? Logan or something? Gone to Port Royal, they’d said. Just like Mr Noonan: gone to Port Royal!”

“Eleanor, _please_.”

“Am I really not allowed to speak of the past at all?” As was often the case in such situations, James made no attempt to make reply, causing Eleanor to deflate and sit down across the table from him. “Do you remember… when you first came to my home?” Gently, she reached out and took his hand into hers. It lay weathered against her own pale skin, which youth and gentle living must have rendered more resilient than his own. “You made me see it as my _home_. You made me see that things could be different. You told me,” she paused to search her memory, “that where a man can live, there he can also live well.”

James smiled at that. “That was Marcus Aurelius.”

“I did not know Aurelius, I only knew Flint,” she had whispered.

“Flint was a monster. A mask.”

“Which _you_ wore.” Ire flashed in James’ eyes for a moment but she continued, undeterred. “He wasn’t only a monster. He was a beacon of reason to me, of hope, of a better future.” After another pause, she added, “He was a father to me.”

“More of an uncle, really,” James shrugged.

“And did I ever mean anything to you, other than being a means to an end?” she asked.

“Why speak of such things now? The Inspector from Bristol is here. Should we not be focusing on the present, such as the unfortunate and mysterious disappearance of our good neighbor Mr Creed?”

“Were we even _friends_ ever? Why did you bring me here?” She let go of his hand and rose from the table. “Nevermind, dear Papa. Regardless of your own reasons, which might be obscure even to your own self, I will protect you. I will make sure that since we _can_ and do live here, that we can also live _well_.”

“Don’t kill the inspector, Eleanor,” James spoke quietly. “It would attract too much attention.”

“Please,” she rolled her eyes. “I do not lack imagination, dear Papa.”

“Don’t fuck the inspector either.” James’ perfect eyebrow lifted in a perfectly assholish arc, or so it appeared to Eleanor, who had often vacillated between admiration and envy of those over-expressive eyebrows.

“Don’t _you_ fuck him yourself. He might be your type!”

“I don’t have a type.” 

“I’ll be sure to tell Cousin John that, next time he visits.”

It was at this moment that the maid, Ms Ames, appeared in the doorway, announcing that Inspector Collinson wanted to speak to Mr and Mistress Matthews.

“I guess we shall see whose type he is,” Eleanor pronounced, looking at Flint down her nose, before he patted the sofa next to him, indicating for her to sit down. She hated the fact that like some well-trained dog, she obeyed.

“Show him in, please, Ms Ames,” James replied with a smile. His aquamarine eyes shifted towards Eleanor and she beheld a serene smirk in his visage which gave his entire physiognomy a mephistophelian glow. “How do I look, dear?”

“Fuckable,” she admitted.


	4. Affairs in Bristol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it snows and Silver has a cunning scheme.
> 
> ~~~

**3 Years Prior, Nassau, New Providence Island**

“I have a favor to ask of you, John,” Flint had said, and Silver’s heart sank.

“I have a feeling you’re going to say something that is going to royally fuck up our plans, no pun intended.” 

“She’s betrayed Rogers, almost everyone in Nassau wants her dead, and England still has a noose with her name on it.”

“It’s bad enough I’m taking Her Fucking Majesty with me! But at least she’s useful!”

“Eleanor Guthrie is useful.”

“To whom?”

“To me.” Flint’s cold gaze broached no contradiction, and Silver knew that gaze well. He had seen it enough times to fear it, and still enough times to love it. It was a force to be reckoned with: the stubborn ass inside this man, the fire that drove him onwards, the wind in his sails.

“You sentimental, old fool,” Silver relented with a sigh. And yet, “It’s too much of a risk. She’ll betray you too, first chance she gets!”

“I’ll make her accountable to me.”

“Eleanor Guthrie has never been accountable to anyone a day in her life.”

“Let me save her, John. I _need_ to do this.”

“You infuriating, mad fuck!” Silver’s lips sought out Flint’s, drinking in his kisses like a magical draught that he needed to fortify himself against such foolish and dangerous sentimentality. “I can’t fucking say ‘no’ to you, and you know it.”

“Thank you,” Flint’s lips worried the shell of Silver’s ear, softly, like the wings of a butterfly.

“I can’t wait to tell everyone you’re fucking dead,” Silver declared, petulantly, leaning into the heat of Flint’s body. “And I have conditions.” He pulled back and looked into his stubborn lover’s tumultuous eyes. “If you take her to Box, you _keep_ her in fucking Box! And she’s not allowed to go near my _wife_. God help us if those two start to scheme together.”

***

**Bristol, December 17--**

The wind outside howled like a bloody banshee as John rubbed his hands together and breathed on them again. He had to wear fingerless gloves for the task he had set himself to and looked askance at the inkwell, half-expecting the liquid inside to freeze. 

The West Indies, Nassau, all of it seemed like a dream.

He dipped his quill into the well and resumed his work. It had been an excellent idea to attribute half of Flint’s misdeeds to Blackbeard. Who would go seek him now beneath the waves? Let it be known that the dastardly villain known as Edward Teach had lain Charles Town to ashes, then. If Anderson’s information was accurate, which is to say, if Rogers hadn’t been on to them, Flint’s secret was safe. Everyone who mattered already thought Flint dead, which had been the first trick Silver had pulled off. Now, for his next trick, he would convince the world Captain Flint never existed.

That Rogers had been a slippery fucker, however. It would not do to have him living in Silver’s own backyard, no matter how many streets lay between his own domicile and 35 Queen Square. He had half a mind to send the wanker a black spot: three days to leave Bristol or die like a dog.

No. No, the Golden Age of Piracy was over, and if anyone still had any doubts, his one hundred percent historically accurate account would soon lay them to rest.

Silver caressed the pages he had already written, passing his exposed fingertips across the title on the cover page. _A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the most notorious Pyrates_ by Captain Charles Johnson. 

“You had to insert a dick joke in there, after all, didn’t you, Long John?”

“Darling,” Silver smiled at his wife’s voice, without turning to face her. “I’d love to hear your thoughts on this when it’s finished.”

“You play a dangerous game, Captain Johnson.”

“The higher the stakes, my sweet, the higher the reward.” He leaned back in his chair, letting her fingers comb through his hair, which he still wore long, despite better judgement. It wasn’t as if anyone would ever catch him dead in a wig.

For a few moments, they remained in companionable silence, as Mrs Silver leaned over his shoulder and let her eyes pass across the latest passages he’d written.

“I want to see Eleanor,” she said suddenly, fingers tightening in Silver’s curls.

“All in good time.” Silver pushed his chair away and extricated himself from his wife’s grip. “Right now, is not a good time.”

“Why? Because you’re afraid of her?”

“I’m not afraid of Eleanor Guthrie,” Silver laughed. “But I do fear what she might do to _him_. What you might both do to compromise him for your own selfish needs.”

“Have I been a bad wife to you, Silver? Have I been weak or disloyal? Disobedient, perhaps?”

“Don’t play your games with me…”

“I do not care what you do with Flint. I do not give a toss about Flint at all. I want to see Eleanor!”

Silver braced himself against her words like an oncoming storm, much like the blizzard currently howling outside their windows. He picked her hands up with his own and brought each one of them in turn to his lips, placing a respectful kiss between her knuckles.

“Do you know who else might want to see Eleanor, my love?” Silver asked in a chilly voice. “Woodes Rogers. Now, when I say that now is not a good time, I mean it. I will not discuss this again.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Oh, come on!” Silver grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “Don’t fucking do this! Surely, you must trust me enough by now to realize that everything I do protects _us_ as well?”

She rose on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I will try not to be cross with you, husband,” she promised softly. “Let me know what I can do to help.”

***

**Box, Gloucestershire, That Christmas**

Cousin John’s wagon had returned, dragged by two horses, neither of which had the look of Mr Creed’s. Not that Eleanor had been a horse expert.

Except for the blizzards, it had been a quiet month. Inspector Collinson, with all the charm of a battle-ax, had not succeeded in unearthing the dismembered remains from beneath the frozen soil in the garden of the Rose Cottage. In the absence of a body, it was difficult to prove that a murder had indeed taken place. Still, the Widow Creed had resolved to don the black of mourning, rather than wear the shame of abandonment.

In the meantime, Eleanor had offered to help the widow run the Beehive.

“With Papa’s permission, of course,” she had fixed her mischievous, blue eyes upon James while Ms Hawkes served the ham and potatoes.

“Oh, Mr Matthews, I would be eternally grateful if you would let your daughter offer me assistance,” the widow pleaded Eleanor’s case. She had kind, dark chocolate eyes that at times reminded James of Miranda. Except where Miranda’s eyes had been full of sharp perspicaciousness, Mrs Creed’s eyes were somewhat more vapid and had a frightened look about them.

He wondered briefly whether things would persist to remind him of Miranda for the rest of his life. Their vegetable patch, his own sun-hat, the way light came down to reflect off the verdant Cotswolds hills that somehow made James think of Miranda’s emerald dress.

“Papa?”

“I don’t see why not,” he finally spoke, shifting his eyes from the rose china pattern on his plate towards Eleanor. It would give her an excuse to always be up in everyone’s business. Oh, she was shrewd, his _daughter_. 

It was then that the sound of horse hooves announced the arrival of the wagon from Bristol. Ms Ames had gone out to make sure their guest was properly received, while Ms Hawkes crossed herself in the kitchen, when she thought no one could observe her.

“No need to worry, Mrs Creed,” Eleanor reassured her guest. “It must be our Cousin John. We had been expecting him for Christmas.”

“Will your cousin come to Christmas Mass, Miss Matthews?”

“I’m sure he would love nothing more,” Eleanor smiled into her teacup. 

The sound of the door being slammed in the wind, followed by the stomp and drag of Silver’s leg and his crutch along the floorboards, and then: there he was, their deliverer. James rose first, unable to keep his excitement hidden in front of their neighbor, but Eleanor had the wherewithal to forestall him, shooting out of her chair and running towards Silver to throw her arms around his neck.

“Cousin John! We were worried you’d be trapped in the snow storm.”

“Darling Cousin,” he responded in his usual honeyed voice that carried across the span of the cottage. “My, you just get prettier each time I see you!”

“You cad,” she whispered into his ear.

“You minx,” he whispered back and turned towards the dining room table. “Uncle James! Aren’t you going to introduce me to your pretty neighbor? And, my stars, Ms Hawkes!” Silver clasped his hand to his heart as the poor, frightened cook peaked out of the kitchen with the pie. “Am I really the most fortunate of mortals to arrive in time to taste your divine apple pie?”

Everyone in the room but Eleanor flushed a deep crimson, like the rowanberries dripping from the trees over the snow-covered thoroughfare. 

“What’s in the tea?” Silver whispered aside to Eleanor.

“Nettles, fennel, and rose petals,” she reassured him with a wicked gleam in her eye that was matched only by Silver’s own.

***

Silver could not get warm enough. He had set out in the morning, having read in the skies the unavoidable, and hoping to beat the storm to Box. He had nearly succeeded, too, but on the last league, one of his horses faltered and needed to be reshoed. He briefly contemplated merely unhitching the mare and leaving her while he rode on, but imagined his wife’s face upon his return, were he to do so minus one of the animals. 

It wasn’t as if he couldn’t buy another one, for fuck’s sakes. He could’ve bought ten more horses with the booty they had spirited away. But one of the things about living off a looted treasure was to not spend the entire treasure all at once. And the other was to make sure that no one actually suspected you had access to unlimited funds.

Be that as it may, he had eventually ridden headlong into the oncoming storm. By the time he got to Rose Cottage, his lips were blue and he was fairly sure his nose had been frostbitten. He wondered if at least his cock had been spared, because that was not an appendage he found disposable, unlike his leg.

Eleanor’s tea then had been a welcome soothing balm to him. And Ms Ames, bless her, had placed an extra bed warmer pan into his bed. Not that he planned on spending a lot of time in his own bed, but it felt pleasant while he lay in it, waiting for the door across from his to click closed. He slipped out of the bed, wrapped himself in a rather ostentatious dressing gown that Eleanor had adorned his guest wardrobe with, and took the few necessary steps across the corridor towards James’ room.

He let himself in without knocking and found James already sitting on the bed in nothing but his shirt, looking somehow angelic in the candlelight as he turned to face Silver and his burnished hair became illuminated like a gloriole.

“Christ, I would have driven both horses to death and taken on the Four Winds by the balls to get to you.” The words tumbled out of Silver’s mouth unbidden, but no less true for the fact that they were unrehearsed. 

James’ smile warmed like the sun and Silver basked in it. “Come to bed.” 

He appeared de-aged, which was odd because Silver had felt like he himself was aging at a very rapid pace. Silver knew that James missed the sea, and that he missed Silver, and that he felt useless being “locked in a Box” as he called it. But for all his complaints, country living had been kind to James, or so it seemed when Silver took a few steps forward and ran his thumbs across his lover’s brow, smoothing out the lines that even then did not furrow quite as much as back in the day when he had been Captain Flint.

“You look good,” Silver whispered, afraid to startle the peace of the moment with the sound of his own voice.

“Mmm, so do you,” James exhaled softly, his breath brushing Silver’s sternum like an angel wing.

“You look happy,” Silver added, pushing past James and crawling with him onto the bed. This bed too had been warmed. He fell into it with gusto and pulled James close.

“I’m always happy when you’re here,” James’ words pressed against his hair and Silver shut his eyes, wanting to drink it all in. The heat of James’ body. The way he felt so solid and real against him. These were the moments he would take back with him to Bristol. These memories would have to keep him warm through the winter nights, along with the piss that passed for local ale. He couldn’t believe he was thinking it, but he actually missed rum. “What is it?” James’ voice called Silver back from the shores of his memories. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m still cold, I suppose,” Silver confessed, attempting to somehow burrow deeper inside James. He trailed his lips down his lover’s chest, fingers pressed firmly into the grooves between his ribs. He kissed all the way down his abdomen, rubbing his face against James’ warm skin and soft, golden body hair as if he were some kind of a cat in heat. He knew this body, every curve, every scar. He had been there in person when many of these scars had been inflicted. He read their own personal history in the secret manuscript of James’ skin.

“Something’s got you all riled up,” James said softly, fingers carding through Silver’s hair, as if he was attempting to soothe a savage beast. For years now they’ve been together like this, and still Silver was impressed each time that James could read him like an open book.

“It’s nothing,” he lied. “Just… affairs in Bristol.”

“Is there anything I can do to help ease your mind regarding your… affairs?” 

“You can fuck me,” Silver suggested affably. “In truth, I drove the horses too far and too fast not to get thoroughly fucked for all my trouble.”

“ _John._ ”

Something about the way James said his name that made a fire shoot straight to Silver’s loins. No one else could call him like that, like Jesus summoning Lazarus from his grave. Just one word, and he would once again set the world aflame. For James. He would do anything for James.

He shut his eyes tighter and pressed his entire face into the warm, comforting flesh of James’ abdomen, inhaling the warm, lazy, unmistakeable scent of his captain’s arousal. Would this man ever stop being his captain? His Stella Maris? Silver highly doubted that.

“My love,” James’ voice poured over his head again, like molten lava, scalding Silver to the very pit of his soul. 

There was only one thing Silver could think of doing, so he slid lower down James’ body, and happily buried his face in the coarse, flaming red hair of his groin. From there, his lips opened unbidden to take in the familiar girth of his lover’s cock. _God_ , how he loved the bloody Cotswolds!


	5. The Circumnavigator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eleanor runs the Beehive and Silver rewrites history.
> 
> ~~~

**Bristol, 17--, Before Christmas**

“Tell me again exactly how it went,” Silver asked, pushing a flagon of ale towards Anderson, who took a long, grateful swallow and shook his head to clear the cobwebs that had descended upon him along with the cold December air. “Do not cut any corners.”

“Well, Mr. Silver, it’s like I said. I came by to ask him how he’d liked the first volume of the book.”

“By Captain Johnson?”

“By Captain Johnson, sir, of course.”

“Go on.”

“So, he fixes his ugly mug like so,” said Anderson and looked at Silver askance while baring one broken canine, “and he says, ‘Funny thing is, Mr. Avery,’ - that was the name you told me to use--”

“Right.”

“‘Funny thing is, Mr. Avery, most of your interview questions for this book were about Captain Flint, yet I have read this entire tome - mind you, with great interest - and there isn’t a single chapter on Captain Flint.’ So I says to him, ‘Captain Flint will be featured in the second volume, you can be sure,’ just like you told me to, sir.”

“What did Rogers say?”

“Well, that was where he asked me who I really worked for, Mr. Silver,” Anderson replied, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.

“And what did you tell him?” Silver liked to think of himself as a patient man, but he found his patience wearing thin.

“I told him that if he wants to meet my employer, he’d have to follow precise instructions.” 

“Well?”

“And then I handed him your instructions!” Anderson took another long swing of the ale and averted his eyes from Silver’s piercing gaze.

“Is he _coming_ , Anderson?” Silver punctuated the sentence with his crutch hitting the floorboards.

“He’ll be there, sir. Tonight, at quarter to midnight, on the quai in front of the barbershop.” Silver exhaled and Anderson slouched back in his chair, feeling a rush of relief. “He’ll come alone.”

“Take Pew,” Silver ordered, rising out of his chair. “I want you both to follow me at fifty paces. Wait for me behind the barbershop and if I’m not back by stroke of midnight, find the bastard and feed him your dagger.”

***

It was snowing, which, along with the cover of darkness, may have been cunning disguise enough - for could Rogers truly recognize him out of context of the humid, tropical sands of the West Indies? In addition, Silver had been wearing a long-brimmed tricorn hat that covered half his face, while the lower half was wrapped up in a rather jolly woolen scarf: a gift from Eleanor Guthrie from previous Christmas. He wondered if it would amuse her to hear that he had chosen her gift to wear to a meeting with her former paramour.

As for the rest of his disguise, he had hoped that his long coat and the way he was seated obscured his artificial leg. And if not, well, he couldn't possibly be the only one-legged bastard in Bristol. 

“Are you Captain Johnson?”

 _Fucking Rogers_. Even the sound of his voice still made something curl inside Silver’s gut, like a tapeworm sucking at his entrails. He should kill him and toss his body into the harbor. Screw Marcus Aurelius and his Stoic bullshit. Sometimes, Silver thought, enlightenment was the domain of the overly privileged. Everyone else did not have the luxury to reflect that “rational animals exist for one another, and that to endure is part of justice, and that men do wrong involuntarily.” He wanted _vengeance_.

“I am he,” Silver finally replied. He wanted vengeance, but he knew very well that to kill a man like Rogers, even a disgraced Rogers, would shine a light upon himself that he could not afford to have shone.

“I read your book,” the hated enemy spoke.

“I understand you were unhappy with some of my more glaring omissions?”

“I’d say a great part of it is fictitious, sir.”

“Well, my good sir, one published author to another soon-to-be-published author, I’d love to hear your opinion.”

“You wrote a great deal about me,” Rogers continued, peering into the darkness, attempting to unmask his interlocutor. Silver would not give him the satisfaction, keeping his head forward in such a way that the hat completely obscured his eyes. “A great deal of complimentary matter, indeed. It makes me wonder, what exactly is the reasoning behind this?”

“I understand, Governor, since your release from prison, you suffer both financially and of ill repute. You have expelled piracy from the Bahamas but have reaped frugal rewards for such efforts,” Silver explained, attempting to keep the growl out of his voice, even as it threatened to boil from within him. “I would see your reputation rehabilitated and you justly remunerated. In short, Mr. Rogers, I would see you gone from Bristol.”

“What do you want from me in exchange for such favors?”

“Well, first, you must lend credence to the contents of this book. I have contacts in London, but doubtlessly, you will be reached out to, if only to have the veracity of the accounts here corroborated.”

“It is in my interest to corroborate them,” Rogers pointed out.

“Indeed. All that is in the Histories and that which isn’t in the Histories.”

“You mean the conspicuous absence of Captain Flint and Long John Silver from your narratives?”

Silver could not be sure on account of the dark and his own hat, but he could have sworn the poncy git had glimpsed in the direction of his stump. 

“That is correct.”

“And your attribution of certain crimes and misdeeds to other pirates in this book, whereas it is well known to me that they were perpetrated by those same two villains?”

Silver grit his teeth and shifted his hand closer to his blade. What would Marcus Aurelius do? The funny thing about that was, his James, the James he had fallen in love with somewhere in between “fuck you” and “fuck me,” had never truly been a Stoic. That had been Thomas Hamilton’s domain, surely, and who was he to Silver to regulate his behavior from the other world this way?

“You noticed.” Silver grinned with an exaggerated bow towards Rogers. “I am flattered.”

Rogers smirked. “Quite the flight of imagination, Captain Johnson.” 

Perhaps this one too had been a Stoic. Shit certainly did have a way of breaking against him like a rocky promontory.

“I want you to forget you ever heard those names and accept your good fortune, Governor.”

“Captain who? Never heard of him.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Very well.”

“If you seek me out, there will be repercussions.”

“I understand, Captain Johnson.”

“Good night to you, sir.”

For a few moments that felt eternal, Rogers stood before Silver, waiting for him to rise and depart. The clock had not yet chimed midnight and the streets were entirely abandoned. _I can still kill him,_ the little voice wheedled at Silver. No, he might be of more use to them alive than dead. After all, Rogers was about to help Silver convince the world that he and Flint had never sailed the seven seas.

At last, “Good night.” Rogers touched his fingers to his hat and turned sharply on his heel. Silver was gratified to notice that he too walked with a limp. He hoped it caused great physical discomfort. 

***

**Box, Gloucestershire, The Following Spring**

The apple blossoms were blooming and the peas and radishes in the garden were just starting to come in. The radishes especially had done well that season, fed on the rich soil which had supported their roots through winter. Eleanor hoped James’ roses would fare as well.

The Beehive was beginning to buzz again, like in the old days before Mr Creed’s disappearance. Even though the widow had still worn mourning, the clientele was never subjected to a lugubrious mood, aided in no small part by the jovial disposition of Mr Matthew’s beautiful daughter. She seemed to have a merry word for everyone who needed one, stood staunch and stout as an oak tree when it came to warding off any tomfoolery, and drove the local youths mad by refusing to humor their love-sick advances.

And she always intercepted the postman on his way to the Rose Cottage because this local Hermes had a hankering for Beehive’s ale.

“You don’t need to bother Papa with that, Mr Tubbs, allow me to unburden you.”

“It’s a heavy package today, Ms Matthews.”

“I am a lot sturdier than I look, Mr Tubbs.”

She had recognized the writing on the package. The well-made cursive “J” in her dear Papa’s name. How lovingly it had been rendered each time. How lovingly that name was uttered when they sat together under their roof. _James._ How long had it been since anyone had uttered her own name with such reverence, like a prayer, a supplication to a cruel and capricious god.

He would know if she opened the package. It burned her fingers, and yet, she set it aside, knowing full well that nothing good would come of her curiosity. James might never let her out of the house again, at this rate.

“It’s a book,” she said, handing the package to James as she returned to the Rose Cottage. “I think. It has the feel of a book.” By the look on James’ face, he had not been expecting this mysterious gift any more than she had been. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

He contemplated her for a few moments, before taking a knife and gently cutting apart the packaging as she watched his hands. So gentle with the knife. She was very keenly aware that even after all these years, these hands could easily wrap around her throat and wring life out of her. And yet, she could not recall a moment when she had actually been afraid of him. Not even when he had told her about Gates. Not even when he'd threatened to rain fire and brimstone upon Nassau.

“ _A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the most notorious Pyrates_ ,” James had read the title out loud with a flourish. “By Captain Charles Johnson.”

“Is this a fucking joke?” Eleanor grabbed the book out of James’ hands. “Has Silver lost his fucking mind?” She quickly flipped open the cover and beheld the inscription.

_Alexander the Macedonian and his groom by death were brought to the same state; for either they were received among the same seminal principles of the universe, or they were alike dispersed among the atoms._

“What the fuck does it mean?” she asked, handing the book back to James, who stood smiling like a madman before her.

“It’s a quote from Marcus Aurelius.”

“And which one are you in this scenario? Alexander or his groom by death?”

“He too was Alexander,” James grinned, and suddenly Eleanor could see that this was a world that she could never fully penetrate: the secret world of James Flint and John Silver.

“You two fucking deserve each other,” she frowned, still looking askance at the book.

“Don’t be a sourpuss. It’s a sign that he’s working on a way for us to be together. You know what that means, right?”

“Not the slightest,” she shrugged, trying not to seem interested.

“You’d finally get to be with _her_. If, that is, you still even care to.”

Eleanor’s face and chest were thrown into flames. James, in the meantime, leafed through the pages of the tome, appearing entirely unimpressed with the storm of emotion his words had brought to the surface.

“Anne Bonny is in this book,” he muttered. Eleanor needed to sit down and pour herself a glass of whatever had been perched in the corner of the table. It was too warm and too bitter on her tongue. 

“What does it say about Captain Flint?” she asked, swallowing down the bitterness that beset her mouth and guts.

James had been checking the table of contents, then leafing violently through the other pages, squinting at some of the chapters in particular.

“James?”

“Yes?”

“What the hell does it say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Flint isn’t in… the History of Most Notorious Pyrates, or what not?” James had a smile on his face that was truly Sphinxian in its nature. “Then who the fuck is?”

“Israel Hands,” James said and began to laugh. He did not stop laughing until Eleanor handed him a handkerchief to wipe away his tears.

***

Luckily, they did not have to wait long for Silver to arrive and explain himself fully, for a few weeks later, during which time James had the opportunity to acquaint himself with piratical murders both real and imagined, the little gate to the garden was pried open, and he appeared. Just as the sun was setting over the hills, the light cast a lavender hue around Silver’s form, making his dark curls stand out against the pinkening skies.

“You are a vision,” James rose from the bench under the apple tree, putting the book aside.

“You’re reading my present,” Silver grinned, and in a few sure steps that had not been impeded by the earthy terrain, he was at James’ side.

“The cook will see,” James whispered, nodding towards the kitchen windows, where Ms Hawkes was doubtlessly having the vapors.

“Not if I blind her,” Silver whispered back and sealed his lips to his lover’s, stealing his breath and what was left of his common sense. The sound of something falling and breaking came from the kitchen. “Now I should probably just cut out her tongue,” Silver suggested.

“Well, you’ve been away from your Uncle for a long time. A little kissing wasn’t an unreasonable way to greet me.”

“You do look _particularly_ avuncular right now,” Silver purred, his fingers tracing the outline of James’ collarbones where his skin peeked out betwixt the opened flaps of his collar.

“Fuck, I missed you,” James exhaled, pressing his forehead to Silver’s and holding him close. He would end up giving Ms Hawkes a raise and a huge Easter bonus for all her trouble.

“I was busy in Bristol… and London.”

“You had something to do with this book,” James sighed and took Silver by the elbow, steering them both towards the house.

“You could say that. I wrote it.”

“I thought I recognized your whimsical style.”

“Whimsical! I’m offended!”

“You can take your offense out on me later, if you like.”

“Mmm, yes, I’d like that very much.”

“But now, you need to tell me about how you schemed the publication of this book.”

“Promise me you’re not going to be angry, first.”

James opened his mouth and closed it, frown lines forming in between his expressive eyebrows. “What have you done, John?”

“I made a deal with the Devil. For the cost of my soul, a couple of old buccaneers disappear from history.”

James searched his eyes and found nothing in them but azure flames of hope.

“Then I shall follow you down into Hell when the Devil collects.”

“I was honestly hoping you’d say that,” Silver exhaled and kissed James again, pressing their bodies together in the narrow alcove leading into the dining room. Another loud crashing sound echoed from the kitchen. “Are you sure you don’t just want me to stab her? I’m armed.”

“Are you terribly hungry?” James purred into his ear. “Or can you wait until after I’ve dined on you upstairs?”

They looked at each other like men who knew that both dinner and their conversation could wait. Besides, doubtlessly Ms Hawkes would appreciate the extra time to set her kitchen in order.


	6. Eleanor Guthrie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Silver takes a big risk and two lovers are reunited
> 
> ~~~

**Nassau, New Providence Island, 1706**

There was a part of Flint that hated the interior. Such artifice, to live so close to that which protected and kept them safe, yet to avert one’s eyes from the cost of it. The cost to one’s soul must have been too much, he’d think bitterly. And yet, those who remembered the Rosario Raid had welcomed piracy with open arms. The pirates made them feel safe, the pirates kept them defended, so that another Rosario Raid may never happen again.

Flint knew it had all been a dream. He had not escaped civilization and bloodied his hands with the guts of former countrymen in order to trade one dream for another. His eyes were opened.

But Miranda was safe in the interior; what could be more important than that? He would indulge her the harpsichord, the gardening patch, even the infrequent trips to the local parish. There was nothing more important that the one person in the world who had known James McGraw before he’d become Captain Flint. Without her to hold the golden thread, he was not sure he’d find his way back to the man he'd been, the man he hoped to still go back to being some day. He had not been a pirate captain for long, but it was all too easy to let McGraw slip through his fingers, like grains of sand on Nassau’s beach. 

Thank god Mr Gates was still around, otherwise Flint’s brain would rot inside his own skull, he was afraid. Although by the look on Gates’ face, he wasn’t approaching the captain of the _Walrus_ with joyous news.

“Sniveling fuck Richard Guthrie has fucked off to Harbour Island and left commerce in the hands of his infant daughter.”

“I beg your pardon?” Flint thought perhaps he had still been asleep, in Miranda’s house in the interior, and this was just another bizarre nightmare the likes of which he had become prone to having.

“You heard me, we are now to do business with a child.”

“What does Teach have to say to this?”

“What does Teach always say?”

“Fuck commerce?”

Mr Gates rubbed the back of his shaven head. “You’re not wrong there.”

“Never has Nassau been governed by anyone with any sense. The lot of the Guthries aren’t worth a half-pence.” Flint spat on the sand to emphasize his opinion of the former Governor. “But to abandon his only living kin in a place like this? I hope he fucking rots.”

“Are you speaking of my father?” A new voice, a young and sonorous voice, like an errant lark that sang out in a den of lions. Flint jumped to his feet as a young woman entered the tent, followed by a tall African, who looked equal parts about to recite a sermon as bash one’s head in while he loomed over her shoulder.

“Is this the infant you were telling me about, Gates?” Flint whispered aside to his quartermaster.

“My name is Eleanor Guthrie,” the young woman spoke. She was no infant, but good lord, she couldn’t have been older than eighteen. Likely younger. “And I hope that you will find me worth at least a half-pence, Captain.”

“Miss Guthrie,” Flint nodded, indicating the only chair in the tent. Gates shifted uncomfortably. 

“I _am_ addressing Captain Flint, am I not? We were never officially introduced.”

“I regret I have not yet had the opportunity to pay you my respects,” Flint replied, receiving a bewildered look from Gates, who continued to hover like an ominous cloud. “You may leave us, Mr Gates.”

“You too, Mr Scott,” Eleanor Guthrie said with so much authority that Flint had no doubt she’d been born to command.

They studied each other in silence for some time. Her eyes were blue, Flint had noticed. He still had a weakness for blue eyes, ever since… things better left buried in the past. She had a round face, framed with blond tendrils, and an open countenance. Good lord, she could have been Thomas’ daughter for all of her appearance and bearing. Flint had only seen Richard Guthrie a few times and mostly from a distance, but he was damned if he knew how that dour fuck had made a daughter like this. She appeared almost like an angel among a sea of demons.

“I am led to believe, Captain Flint,” she broke the silence first, “that you are one of the more lucrative captains currently sailing out of the port of Nassau. And one of the more reasonable ones.” 

“I am what I am, Miss Guthrie,” he replied in an even voice.

“And what’s that?”

“A pirate.”

“We can put a system in place here that would make piracy more profitable for you.” Ah, so she was getting to a point. She may have looked like an angel, but she certainly had no halo. “For such a system to work, it is my belief that I will need a majority of the captains on my side in order to preserve good relations on the beach.”

“You’re not wrong,” Flint admitted, cautiously. 

“What, in your opinion, would be the biggest impediment to a strong and independent Nassau?”

Was she really asking him this? Was he about to enumerate to her the same list of misdeeds that not so long ago he had presented to Thomas? What was it that Thomas had said to him that day? Ah yes. _Strange pairs, Lieutenant, they can achieve the most unexpected things._ At least here, now, he didn’t have to pretend that pirates weren’t a pertinent issue.

“Miss Guthrie, if you’re asking me who is likely to grow into your biggest problem, you need to look no further than Edward Teach.”

She smiled and chewed on her lower lip, avoiding his gaze for a few moments. 

“Do you have a plan for getting rid of Blackbeard, Miss Guthrie?”

She rose from his chair and extended her hand. “Can I count on your support, Captain Flint?”

_For what?_ he wanted to ask. _You’ll get yourself killed_ , he wanted to add. Instead, he reached out and shook her hand.

***

**Bristol, 17--**

Captain Johnson’s book had quickly come to great acclaim in England. It appeared to satisfy a certain craving the British populace had for the violent exoticism that so whetted their appetites. The book became so popular, indeed, that the public clamored for the oft promised second volume that Captain Johnson had been rumored to be working on. Still, there was much national fervor engendered by the topic, the kind which eventually reached the highest corners of society. So much so that Woodes Rogers, levied by his newly revived reputation as a national hero, had managed to successfully petition King George for his pension, thus lifting his spirits and his finances significantly.

All in all, Silver pondered, fucking Rogers had made out like a bandit on his book. Almost as richly as Silver himself. After all, he might have had altruistic plans and ideals while writing the damned thing, but that did not mean he had lost his gift of negotiating a proper royalty.

It came as no shock then, that shortly after, the King had appointed Rogers the Lord Governor of the Bahama Islands once again. At long last, Silver hoped, he could put an ocean between himself and this odious spectre of his past.

“Tell me that poncy fuck is making preparations,” Silver practically moaned into Pew’s face.

“Oh, he’s preparing all right. Only he’s got a piece of tail he’s been chasing all over the British Isles. Says he won’t go till he finds her.”

“What tail? Says to whom?” Silver’s hand feverishly clenched around his crutch.

“Anyone who’d listen. Says she’s a former lover of his, says she was kidnapped by pirates, ha! Can you believe it, Mr Silver?”

“Pew, you are a fucking idiot! If I didn’t need you to tell me what you know right now, I’d smash your fucking skull in for not telling me any of this sooner!”

“I’m awful sorry, Mr Silver, I didn’t know she had meaning!”

Silver grabbed the man by his scruff and pushed him into the back of the tavern, away from prying eyes.

“You told me to report back to you if it sounded like he was looking for former pirates!” Pew preempted the beating that he was no doubt about to receive.

“And don’t you think, my brilliant friend, that if he’s looking for a woman who he says was abducted by pirates, that this is something that should be reported to me? Hm?” At that moment, Silver would not have surprised himself if fire had actually come shooting out of his nostrils. Pirates! Idiots, fucking nincompoops the lot of them! Before Pew could open his mouth in protest, Silver pounded the table. “Silence, worm!” He needed a few moments to collect his wits. He lay his crutch down on the bench next to himself and took a breath. “All right, Pew, all right. Now… tell me everything you know about this woman.”

***

Silver could not believe he was here again. He had hoped, after their last meeting, never to have another occasion to stand this close to Woodes Rogers. Yet here he was, putting himself newly in such proximity, and all because he couldn’t let this fucker get even the smallest whiff of where James was holed up. He sincerely hoped syphilis wasn’t actually an airborne disease, because he was pretty sure Rogers had it. In either event, if the amount of times he’d prayed for Rogers to acquire a venereal disease counted for anything, then Rogers’ cock would truly be cursed.

Hope was the last thing to die, either way.

“Captain Johnson.”

Silver nodded at the ugly fuck. “Governor.” 

There was yet time; he could still stab this asshole and toss him into the harbor. Then, he could find a new asshole, cut up half his face, put him on a ship to Nassau and have _him_ pretend to be Rogers. And good fucking riddance!

“Thanks to you, Captain.” The bastard tipped his hat to Silver who felt bile rise up all the way to his teeth.

“I hear you’ve been delaying your departure,” Silver squeezed through clenched jaws. “Is there yet something here on our shores of Albion that holds you fast to her bosom?”

“You are very well informed, Captain. Perhaps you could tell me yourself. What have you heard?”

“I heard you’re searching for a woman. But I can assure you, when you get to New Providence Island, there will also be women there.”

“Not like this one.”

“If you’re feeling sentimental, perhaps we can find someone to draw you a picture.”

“I’m looking for Eleanor Guthrie,” Rogers spoke, punctuating each word as if he had been striking a drum. It resonated with murder inside Silver’s chest. “She disappeared during a raid on Nassau. I’m told Captain Flint was involved.”

“Captain Flint, I’m sure you will agree, Governor, is a figment of the imagination. It was Blackbeard who wanted Miss Guthrie dead, for the role she played in the hanging of Charles Vane.”

“Nevertheless, I have reason to believe that she survived the raid and has returned back to England, where she is currently living in hiding.”

Silver’s nostrils flared and he forced himself to take another calming breath. “How long have you been looking for her?”

“Why? Do you know where she is?”

“What would it mean to you if I did?” Silver spat onto the quai, the risen bile choking him. “Would it mean you get on that ship and never return? Would it mean you forget everything that we already _discussed_ was a figment of your imagination?”

The air was still between them. In the darkness of the night, Silver was certain that Rogers’ eyes were fixed upon his stump. 

“You would bring her to me?”

A better man may have hesitated. Luckily, Silver was not a better man. “If that means you stop searching and get the fuck off the continent, I will.”

“You do not much care then what I might do to her once you deliver her to me?”

“I imagine that’s between you and Miss Guthrie.”

“Captain Johnson,” the grotesque monster in fine clothing touched his fingers to the brim of his hat again in salute. “I am much obliged to you for everything you’ve done for me. I fear that while we may never be friends, you can at least rest assured that you will not be named among my enemies.”

***

**Box, Gloucestershire, A Few Days Later**

Silver trembled in his embrace while James pressed fevered kisses to his elongated neck and thrust up into the tight heat of him. One of James’ hands was shoved in between Silver’s teeth, muffling his rhythmic moans, the other reached into the furnace between their bodies to wrap around Silver’s cock.

And then James’ hips stilled and he frowned down at Silver, pulling his hand free from between his teeth.

“What the fuck, John? Since when do you go soft when I’m fucking you?”

Silver’s hand angrily dug into the flesh of James’ ass, pulling him closer. “Don’t stop,” he whined.

“Where are you right now?”

James kissed his lips, then his nose, then the crease forming in between his eyebrows.

“A lot on my mind. I’m sorry, darling. Keep going. Finish it.”

“No way. Not like this.”

“ _Yes_.” Silver’s nails pressed rageful crescents into James’ flesh. “Like this. Please, James. I need you to finish.”

Silver’s eyes were storm clouds gathering against James’ pillow. He tangled his fingers in his lover’s long curls and pulled until their teeth and tongues collided. He shoved his hips forward a few more times, his eyes shut, trying not to think about Silver’s soft cock as it lay pressed against his sweat-slicked abdomen. 

“Come on, love, come inside me,” Silver whispered, nails no longer biting into James’ flesh, hands pressed under James’ shoulderblades, like a pair of wings. It almost made James want to cry, how so much need could be married with so much tenderness. He shuddered in Silver’s embrace and sank against his body, spent but no where near as sated as he should have been.

Outside, the pitter-patter of soft rain lulled nature into a drunken stupor. All around the Cotswolds, the verdant hills would burst forth in smatterings of wildflowers to the tune of the shepherd’s soulful song. Spring was a time of renewal. Spring made people fall in love. Of all the seasons Nassau did not have, James had missed spring the most.

“Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?” he muttered against Silver’s shoulder.

“My wife…”

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving me for her.” James rolled onto his side with a sly grin. “I am not above killing women, you know.”

Silver too rolled to his side, so that they lay face to face, his hand coming to rest against James’ cheek, his thumb carefully tracing over the soft bristles of James’ beard.

“She misses Eleanor,” Silver continued. “And, I think… After all this time, there is no harm in bringing her to Bristol for a visit. Is there?”

“You were the one who thought it would be best to keep them apart,” James pointed out, leaning into his lover’s touch. “The months that I don’t see you are… almost unbearable. We have separated them for years. I had not thought Eleanor capable of such constancy, to be honest.”

“So, you would not be opposed to my taking her with me when I leave?”

The question gave James pause. Eleanor was not actually his daughter, nor his ward in any way. Knowing what she was capable of, he’d often wondered why she hadn’t simply gone off without his permission. Surely, there had been plenty of men (and women) she could have seduced into carrying her off since they’d come to Box. 

“I think Eleanor might actually really love her,” James said aloud, and then added, “This is what's got your dick all limp?”

“Jesus! Have mercy on a fellow man.”

***

“You’re not taking very much with you,” James said with such paternal concern that it made Silver want to bite off his own tongue. “You should at least take more money. I know how you love to spoil your lady-loves.”

“James,” Eleanor laughed, her face transformed into an expression of joy and gratitude, “I’ll only be gone for a few days. He’s going to bring me right back, if only as an excuse to see you.” She glanced directly at Silver, and not for the first time he wondered whether he actually possessed a soul. If he did, it belonged to James. So either way, it wasn’t really his to claim. “Aren’t you, Cousin John?”

“What?”

“Going to bring me back in a few days?”

“Of course. I couldn’t stand the thought of you at my home for longer than that,” Silver replied with as much cheer as he could muster.

“My god! You’re going to miss me, aren’t you, old man?” Eleanor teased and pulled James into a tight embrace. Silver watched, transfixed, as James’ arms rose and settled gently about her shoulders. James had never been a very self-assured hugger, Silver remembered fondly.

“I only worry you don’t get yourself in trouble,” James mumbled, averting his eyes from Eleanor’s piercing gaze. “Now go on. Get out of here.”

“I’ll bring her back,” Silver promised, wrapping his own arms around James’ solid, familiar frame. He had every intention of keeping that promise, up to a point. To the extent that Eleanor had no intentions of leaving with Rogers, he’d bring her back. And if at any point he suspected she was about to betray them, well, he’d bring her back dead and bury her beneath the roses.

“Take care of my girl, John,” said James and Silver kissed him with the fervor of a man who knew there was a chance he would not be kissed this way again.

Silver had never made this trip with a companion before and, he had to admit, it made the road seem shorter, having someone to talk to. His apprehensions evaporated the moment that James was out of his sight, although errant thoughts of him made Silver’s heart ache. He had abducted Eleanor, taken her from their home under false pretenses, and was about to turn her over to a man he had considered his personal enemy. He wondered briefly if this act of treason would be enough to make James want to kill him, or merely punish him forever with his scorn. Death would be kinder than to look into those green eyes bereft of love.

And yet… What else could he do? All his other choices risked greater exposure. He had gone too far to keep James safe to turn back now.

_He had no choice_.

He looked at Eleanor askance, even though she had not uttered a word, and let out a deep sigh. The least he could do was let her enjoy the reunion she was so looking forward to.

When the wagon rattled to a halt, Silver set himself down first, and then helped Eleanor descend, even though he was fully aware of the irony that of the two of them she required less aid. Her fingers pressed against his hand and her eyes seemed almost purple in the rays of the setting sun.

“Has she changed much?” Eleanor asked softly.

“No more than you,” Silver responded.

“You are fortunate to look upon such beauty every day, Cousin John,” Eleanor smiled and put her arm through Silver’s, following him towards the house.

“Aye, she has her uses,” Silver shrugged.

Suddenly, she pulled back on his arm, stopping before the threshold and laughing nervously.

“I’m sorry, I… I’ve waited for this moment for so long, I’ve imagined it a thousand different ways, and now it’s here… and I’m terrified.”

No, James would never forgive Silver for lying to him like this. For lying to _her_. He had to tell her the truth about Rogers.

“Eleanor,” he began, “there’s something I need to tell you...”

“Eleanor?” A woman’s soft voice called down from the stairwell. “ _Mon dieu_! Eleanor, is it really you?”

Silver saw no more hesitation in Eleanor’s step as she took several strides forward, crossing the threshold and stopping at the foot of the stairs to catch the woman who had thrown herself into her arms.

“Max!”


	7. Queen Square

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James has a realization and Eleanor makes a choice
> 
> ~~~

**Bristol, 17--**

“Max…”

Her pupils were the shade of tiger’s eye stones and her skin as flawless as they day they met in Noonan’s brothel in Nassau. And her hair, that hair that Eleanor had loved to run her fingers through so much, was just as rich and luxurious as before, and scented with almond oil. And her hands, those little hands that could bring you to the brink of ecstasy so quickly, had lost neither their gentle touch nor their skilled adroitness.

“Max… oh _god_...”

Oh, how Eleanor had missed those clever fingers! And those luscious lips. The heaviness of Max’s breasts against the palms of Eleanor’s hands. The aroma and taste of her. 

Eleanor buried her face in the pillow, to hide the fact that tears had streaked down her face, but Max only gathered her up into her arms and said, “Hush my love, you’re safe now. You’re home.”

Eleanor had been through enough to know that nothing good lasted forever, just as nothing bad did. She had grown into quite the Stoic herself, merely by biding her time in observation of James and his books and his roses. James’ favorite Emperor wrote, “Nothing happens to any man which he is not formed by nature to bear.” She supposed this was more true about her than it had ever been about James. He had to split into Flint in order to bear that which had happened to him. And Flint was not something that was formed by nature, it had been a creation of will alone, a monster born out of agony. She was better suited for nature’s ever changing course, she came and went with the tides, she shifted upon the sands in a way that James never could. So, perhaps it was because of this that she was able to sleep well that night, knowing full well that the moments of bliss she shared with Max were fleeting, but that chasing them would not make time stand still.

It was no surprise to her, then, that Silver opened his mouth over breakfast and, “Darling, Eleanor and I should speak alone,” came out.

“Whatever you have to say to me, you can say before your wife, surely,” Eleanor retorted, setting her tea down. Something about Silver’s face had always unsettled her, but it unnerved her more than ever at that moment. “Max stays,” she repeated.

“Of course, Max stays,” Max snarled and treated her husband to a long, scathing look.

“As you wish,” Silver spread out his arms in a gesture of openness that Eleanor was still reluctant to buy. “Eleanor, I brought you here so you can finally see - and feel - Max, which I know has been your wish for some time.”

Eleanor narrowed her eyes. “And now, I suppose, you want something in return?” 

“Please understand,” Silver pressed his hand to his heart in a gesture of sincerity, “this isn’t something I want. It is something I need you to do. For James’ sake, if not for ours.” He encompassed Max into a wide sweep of his arm upon uttering _ours_. Eleanor had always known Silver to be a masterful manipulator, but this was heavy-handed, even for him.

“What the fuck do you mean?” Max turned upon him, eyes shining with leonine fierceness.

“There is someone in Bristol who has been looking for you,” Silver continued. “Someone whose attention would be very dangerous, were it to land in the wrong place. I’ve worked hard over the past few years making sure everyone forgets Captain Flint ever existed. So, to curtail this man’s search, I have had to promise to locate you for him myself.” 

He paused, allowing this information to sink in.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Eleanor whispered. “It’s Rogers.”

“It is,” Silver confirmed.

“Have you lost your fucking _mind_?” Max exploded.

“This is why, my dear, I preferred that you not overhear our discussion, quite frankly,” Silver responded with apparent calm.

The pieces of the puzzle arranged themselves neatly in Eleanor's mind. “You want to turn me in to Rogers to protect James,” she spoke. 

“Rogers is going to fucking kill her!” Max shouted again.

“You don’t know that,” Silver said with quiet resolve. “And I would thank everyone to keep their voices down.”

“How do you know I won’t betray James to save myself?” Eleanor asked, just as it looked as if Max was getting ready to strike Silver.

“Believe me, that is something I have considered and for which I have a contingency plan.”

“You would kill me yourself,” Eleanor smiled. “Why, Cousin John, I would expect nothing less after everything we’ve shared.” 

She could still see it in his features, the echoes of Long John Silver that were kept so carefully at bay in the Cotswolds. Just as James was no longer Flint there, Silver must have left Long John behind every time he departed Bristol. She wondered whether the shedding of that persona had been a relief or a burden to him.

“Nevertheless,” she continued, “this puts me in a very precarious situation, wouldn’t you agree? If I go to meet Rogers, there is a good chance he will have me killed or arrested, which amounts to the same. If I make a play for my life, it will be forfeit thanks to your own handywork. And if I refuse, you are very likely to put me in the ground on principle, because to do otherwise would be risking the exposure of Flint’s secret.”

“Your refusal would be irrelevant. I have promised to deliver you to Rogers, and so I shall, with or without your cooperation.” He paused again, “In the name of all the aforementioned things we’ve shared, I prefer _with_.”

Max’s hand closed over hers. “Eleanor… You don’t have to do this. He will not hurt you,” she glanced angrily in Silver’s direction, “I will not let him.”

“No, he’s right, Max,” Eleanor replied with a resigned sigh. “With Rogers sniffing around for me, none of you would ever be safe.”

“I knew you were still rational,” Silver stated, punctuating the end of the discussion with the thud of his crutch on the floorboards.

Eleanor flipped her arm over so she could hold Max’s hand clasped in her palm. They looked so right together, their hands, clasped like this. How could she ever had thought differently, she wondered. 

“Besides, Rogers surprised me once before. Perhaps he will again,” she said, forcing a brave smile onto her face.

***

**Box, Gloucestershire, 17--**

The house was empty without her, even though both Ms Hawkes and Ms Ames were still in attendance, chattering away in the kitchen, their laughter filling the cottage with a wholly different feminine energy than Eleanor exuded.

He used to talk to Miranda about Eleanor, a lifetime ago it seemed like. Now, he spent long hours before the fireplace telling Eleanor stories of Miranda, while she sat and stared at more than needled her needlework. He suspected he might have had a neater cross-stitch than Eleanor Guthrie ever would. 

She listened to him with patience and apparent interest, and when he would finish, she would commence to speak of Max. Of how brief their time together was, but how sweet. How it broke her heart to choose Nassau’s future over her love. How finally, reunited with her as equals, she understood that their love was doomed to failure before that moment, for they could only see eye-to-eye while they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

And he understood. He had felt the same way about John, so he understood. Having a partner was never as satisfying as having an equal.

James poked the cinders in the fireplace and added another log because the nights were still cold in Box, even in the full bloom of spring. They’d be back in Bristol by now, he figured. And Eleanor would see Max again: that fey queen who had stepped in to replace Madi at Silver’s side when they appeared so desperately bereft of allies. 

“You’re going to take me with you,” Max had put it plain and simple, “and we’re going to be partners. You and I have always been great partners.”

“Why would I do that?” Silver had asked.

“Because I can get you the rest of the cache of pearls that has been repossessed by Rogers. That’s ten times what Flint has buried on that island.”

Max had always had a head for numbers and reasoning that was difficult to argue with, or so Eleanor had often insisted to him as they talked.

He went to bed and woke up early and with a heavy heart. His dreams had haunted him all night. Strange dreams, dreams of John and Eleanor dancing in the middle of a clearing. James could not quite put his finger on why, but the image of it unsettled him and he woke up covered in a cold sweat as if chased by monsters from his past.

Something about John’s behavior still got his hackles up. James had seen John preoccupied before, scheming, homicidal, you name it. None of those situations ever made him lose his erection, upon reflection, certainly not mid-coitus. Was James losing his touch? Did Silver have another lover in Bristol? The way he had kissed James upon departure was deep and desperate. He had not spoken his usual words upon parting, “I will see you in my dreams, my love.” He had not left a hidden manuscript of piratical tales under the pillow. Come to think of it, he had only remained long enough to collect Eleanor and…

No. If John had another lover in Bristol, why would he take Eleanor back with him?

Unless… he had decided to leave but Max would not go without her _bien-aimée_.

No. If that were the case, Silver would never have taken off without the treasure. The real one, the one buried out back beneath the rosebeds. 

And then again, how could he even think that? After everything they’ve been through together, if there was one thing in the world he could set his course by was that John Silver loved him. Impossibly, insanely, but truly.

“Oh god, John, what the fuck have you done?” James groaned, tossing himself out of bed and beginning to throw his riding clothes on.

Silver had always claimed that it was about an eight hour wagon ride from Box to Bristol, which he could make in seven on a good day. But if James traveled on horseback and used post horses, he should be able to make it to Bristol in half that time. Granted, it had been… well, far too long since he’d been in the saddle, and even longer than that since he’d traveled at a sustained gallop, but he could not afford to have doubts now. 

His lover had abducted his daughter. He didn’t know why, but fuck it if he wasn’t going to do his damnedest to get her back.

***

**Back in Bristol**

“Here we are then, 35 Queen Square,” Silver pronounced, his tricorn pulled deeply over his eyes. “Home sweet viper’s nest.”

“I suppose this is where we say goodbye,” Eleanor said, looking upon the red brick walls of the residence of the one and future Governor of the Bahama Islands. “What are you going to tell James, if he asks what became of me?”

“I’ll tell him I’m truly sorry, but I did not see another way out of it.”

“There’s always another way,” Eleanor replied with a smile. “And you were right, you know, Mr Silver. Guilt passes, if you let it.”

“For what it’s worth,” his stump gave a few uncertain taps against the cobblestones, “I really do regret it had to come to this.”

“Survivor’s remorse does not become you, Cousin John.” She turned from him and faced the entryway of Roger’s residence again. “I am ready.”

“Anderson,” Silver commanded, “escort the lady in.”

The stomp and drag of his peg leg along the cobbled street tolled in Eleanor’s ear as the man he had designated as “Anderson”, a stranger to her, took her by the elbow and lifted the heavy door knocker at 35 Queen Square.

The stairwell leading up to Rogers’ rooms felt oddly like the way to the gallows. It was strange, she thought: she ostensibly had a lot less to lose now than when she had been abducted by Hornigold in Nassau, yet, in the present moment, she was far less willing to let go of the things she did have. Back then, when she had been Queen of Thieves, she knew there was no one left in the world who would mourn her. And yet, here in Bristol, where she stood no one but Mistress of Rose Cottage, she wanted to live.

Another door opened and, “Hello Woodes.”

“Eleanor,” her former lover spoke in a tremulous voice. “My god, you are… miraculous.” 

She did not know what to say, so she remained silent, waiting for him to explain things to her as he once did in a cold, dark cell where she had been abandoned by the world. At least, she was pleased to note, he did not appear armed. 

“You must be wondering why you’re here,” Rogers eventually continued.

“I assumed you would simply come to telling me,” she replied.

“I do not know if you have heard the news. I am to return to Nassau as Lord Governor again.”

“My congratulations,” she replied. “Piracy expelled, commerce restored: I believe that was the slogan, was it not?”

“Eleanor…” Something close to ardor had moved him to take a step towards her, but he froze in his tracks. “I have not been able to stop thinking about you. At times, thoughts of you were the only thing that kept me going when I was imprisoned.”

“Thoughts of doing what to me?” She had decided to come straight to it.

Rogers laughed. He still had that easy charm about him, that open countenance of a man unaccustomed to telling lies or being lied to.

“I know you betrayed me, but I forgive you,” he continued. “Once again, you were put in an impossible situation and your alliances had to shift for you to survive.” He was, she thought, surprisingly lucid on the topic. Far more so than Flint had been, even as he dragged her away from certain death and to the halcyon idyll of the Cotswolds. “I want you to come back with me.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened in shock. “I do not understand.”

“I want you to come back. With me. To Nassau. I want to take you back home.”

_Home_. The word made something clench inside her chest; she suspected it must have been her heart, even though many had accused her of lacking that particular organ.

_Was_ Nassau still her home? The only two people who would mourn her (which was two more than she had the first time Rogers made her this offer), were both here, in England. And yes, she was certain of it, he would mourn her too, her wayward father. James Matthews. James McGraw. Captain Flint. She pictured him, under the apple trees, reluctantly wearing the sun-hat she had bought him, his freckled nose buried deep inside some book that Silver sent him as a token of his affection. She pictured him laughing and quoting Marcus Aurelius to her, even though she was convinced he didn’t believe a word of it. 

“Eleanor?”

She could not speak. She tried to breathe against the bones of her corset - her second cage - and nothing came of it. 

No, Nassau was no longer her home.

“No thank you, Woodes.”

“What did you say?”

“I said ‘no.’ I do not wish to return with you to Nassau.”

“What is keeping you here, then?”

“A life. An utterly unexpected life, but a life of my own.” She felt her rib cage move again, straining against the binds of her lacing. She was breathing. “And I really am grateful,” she continued, “for your generous offer. You have always been so generous with me. But I’m afraid I simply cannot accept it.”

“It’s him, isn’t it? Captain Flint!” A crooked smile cut Rogers’ face in half. “I wasn’t sure of it before, but you and that cripple are both protecting him, aren’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What is it, Eleanor? Is he your lover? I would not put that past you. I remember you’ve always had a penchant for pirate captains.”

“Flint… my lover?” She could not help but giggle at that, and once she started, she found it very difficult to stop. A fit of hysterics was threatening to overtake her. Rogers was going to kill her! Rogers thought Flint was her lover! She was going to die, and she couldn’t stop laughing!

“I’m glad you find this all very amusing. But you must understand the position you have put me in. I could have kept you safe in Nassau. But I’m afraid there is no way that I can simply set you free having you here. Unless…”

“Unless?”

“Unless you give me Captain Flint.”

“I don’t know whom you mean,” Eleanor stated, flatly.

“Don’t play that game with me, my sweet!” Rogers snapped, towering over her. He had never hit her in the past, which is not to say he was incapable of it in a fit of rage.

“This is no game. I am telling you, there is no such man,” she replied. _Nothing happens to any man which he is not formed by nature to bear._ “Captain Flint does not exist.” Nor woman either, she reminded herself. 

What would he say if he saw her now, her dear Papa? Would he smile at her and tell her that she’s finally done it: she’s surprised even herself?

“I’m sorry, Woodes. I cannot tell you what you want to know.”

“So you would die on the gallows for him?”

“I am only telling you the truth - the man you seek no longer exists.”

“Fine, let it be as you wish,” he barked out and marched towards the back door of his office, throwing it wide open. “You men! Call the constables!”

“I am sorry if I hurt you, Woodes,” she said, taking a few steps backwards. She did not have a plan. She wasn’t armed and her poison garden was far from Queen Square. Silver had left and no one was coming for her except the long arm of the full extent of the law. “But if you must know: yes. I love him.”

“Whom?”

“Captain Flint,” she said and started to laugh again. The least she could do was to die laughing. It was, after all, all so incredibly amusing, if you thought about it.


	8. Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all these events reach their inevitable resolution
> 
> ~~~

“You’re mad,” Rogers spat out at her. “You’ll be laughing all the way to the gallows!”

“You’ve always been a man of honor… W--Woodes,” Eleanor tried to speak through tears of laughter in her eyes, “I’d expect… nothing less!”

The sound of rapid footsteps alighting the stairs announced her approaching doom. But she had been there before, she had been behind a door awaiting death, and instead… Instead Flint came for her.

“You have three seconds to change your mind and tell me where Flint is,” Rogers spoke in the same glacial tone that Eleanor remembered quite well from the early days of their acquaintance. 

“Flint? Never heard of it!”

“Eleanor!”

“Governor!” she parroted him, still finding the entire situation entirely too amusing. She supposed in some way she must have taken leave of her senses. Too many books and far too much free-thinking, as society would doubtlessly say later, standing over her unmarked grave.

Something heavy collapsed behind the door and she turned, eyes fixed upon the handle as the wood began to creak beneath blows coming from without.

“Are these your constables, Woodes?” she asked, her heart racing as she took another step away from the entrance.

A gunshot splintered the lock and the door flew open, while behind her, Rogers reached for a weapon.

“You’re coming with me,” said a terrifying voice and a hand extended towards her through the haze of the gunsmoke. “ _Now_ , Eleanor!”

“Silver?”

She reached out to grab his extended hand while the room rapidly filled with armed men. In one of them she had recognized Anderson, the others seemed less familiar, until one of them swung a samurai sword over her head, aiming at one of Rogers’ men. Good god, she realized, this is what was left of the crew of the _Walrus_.

She stepped over the bodies of the fallen constables as she followed Silver down the stairwell, which he navigated with a surprising amount of grace, like some fierce jungle cat. Another man lay fallen at the foot of the stairs, his skull cracked open like a pomegranate, and she could not help but take a closer look at the handle of Silver’s crutch. A strange wave of gratitude washed over her as she discovered it bloodstained.

“Hurry up, get in the wagon,” he pointed with the same blood-smeared walking stick.

“I thought you had…”

“I couldn’t let you die,” Silver said, leaping into the wagon after her. “He would never forgive me,” he added.

“I didn’t betray him,” Eleanor said, more to herself than him. “I didn’t tell Rogers anything.”

“I know,” Silver glanced over at her, his driving whip hurrying the horses as the wagon raced away from Queen Square. “I figured there was only one reason he’d call the constables. He wouldn’t need them to escort the two of you to the port, would he?”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “How did you know he’d offer to take me to Nassau?” 

Silver laughed. “He was in love with you. People in love do the stupid, predictable thing every time!” 

“I did not predict _this_ ,” Eleanor said, brushing her hand against the sleeve of his upper arm. His coat was bloodstained too.

“I told you, James would never forgive me,” Silver repeated, avoiding her gaze and concentrating on steering the wagon down the busy Bristol streets.

“He would’ve been fairly angry with you if I had agreed to go with Rogers, as well, I imagine.” She smiled and gave him a sly look from beneath her long eyelashes. “You lied to him.”

“Like I said, people in love… do stupid things…”

The wagon pulled up behind the Spy-glass Tavern and Eleanor decided to help herself down without waiting for Silver. She had imposed upon his chivalry enough for one day.

“Come now, say goodbye to Max,” Silver was saying as he hobbled along towards the tavern’s entrance. “I should get you out of Bristol as soon as possible.”

She could hardly keep up with him. “What about you?”

“Well, Max will need to liquidate some of our assets, but…”

Silver staggered back as someone’s fist landed right in his face and Eleanor heard Max cry out. She grabbed for Silver’s dropped crutch and held it aloft, ready to defend herself against this mysterious, new assailant when, “Fucking hell, James!” Silver spat blood on the ground.

She lowered the crutch and took a tentative step into the tavern. “James?”

“Eleanor, thank god!”

She took another step forward and found herself falling into his embrace, “James!” Her face was buried against the solid, warm planes of his broad chest. He smelled of sweat and leather, like a man who had been in the saddle all day.

“Can I have my crutch back?” she vaguely heard behind her. The only thing that was important was her father’s arms around her, stroking up and down her back, his lips pressed against her hairline as she attempted to cocoon herself into the reassuring safety of his body. She did not know when she started to weep, she only knew that she was soaking the collar of his shirt.

***

Max performed her conjugal duties admirably, applying a wet cloth to Silver’s broken lip as Flint frowned at his lover, one arm still around Eleanor’s shoulder. Oddly enough, for a man who ran his mouth as much as Silver normally did, he was suspiciously silent. It was the silence of a guilty man who had fucked up and knew better than to defend himself.

James pressed a chaste kiss to Eleanor’s forehead, one eye still on Silver. “It’s all right, sweetheart, we can go home now.”

“We can’t go home yet,” Eleanor lifted her face from his shoulder. “We have to kill Rogers.”

“If I thought it was a good idea to kill Rogers,” Silver finally spoke, batting Max’s hands away from his face, “don’t you think I would have done so by now?”

“He won’t ever stop hounding us.” She glanced over at James. “Hounding _you_. You have to go back and kill him.”

James seemed to remember something. “Wait.” His eyes flickered from Eleanor to Silver. “Why are you back here? What actually happened between you and Rogers? Max filled me in on his plans, but...” Perhaps in a minute he would be able to say Silver’s name again, but for the moment, he was still too full of rage and punching his former quartermaster some more wasn’t entirely out of the question.

Eleanor fidgeted. “Rogers was going to turn me over to the law because I refused to go with him to Nassau.”

“Because she refused to tell him where Captain Flint was, actually,” Silver chimed in. “I had Pew stationed at the door,” he added by way of explanation.

“Silver killed the constables and whisked me away,” said Eleanor. “It was actually surprisingly heroic.”

“You saved her?” Max startled. “After all that talk of not giving a shit about what happened to her?”

“When did you say that?” James snarled.

“He saved me because he could not bear the thought of…”

“...You punching me in the face,” Silver interrupted with a glare thrown in Eleanor’s direction. “But I see now that the punching was unavoidable.”

The wind, such as it was, had gone out of James’ sails a tad.

“You lied to me. That required an answer,” he said to Silver.

“I know.”

“You promised you would never lie to me again.” James hated the sound of his own voice as he said it, but there it was, the vulnerable truth.

“I know.”

“And you took my daughter away!” James fumed.

Silver had that sheepish look about his face that spoke of defiance and insubordination. “You know, she’s not actually your daughter…”

“Who asked you!”

“You two can have this argument later!” Eleanor shouted. “You have to go back and kill Rogers! Both of you. Now. _Go!_ Kill.”

Max gently dabbed at Silver’s lower lip one more time. “She’s right. You should go clean this mess up.”

The very sea air alone had made James feel more like his old self again. The old self that craved the blood of Englishmen, relished the smell of gunpowder, and enjoyed punching people in the mouth. He looked over at Silver, who rose and began to reload his pistols, eventually handing one to James. This part was so familiar, the speedy preparation for battle, communicating without saying a word, that for a moment James had forgotten he was supposed to be angry about anything other than the threat that Rogers posed.

“It’s about time we had the final say with the Governor,” he murmured and watched Silver’s bruised mouth curl into a cruel smile.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

***

The house on Queen Square had been empty. The carnage that Silver had left in his wake had somehow been mostly cleaned up, by whom they could only imagine. Only dark smears on the stairwells remained to tell a gruesome tale of what had passed only a very short while ago.

“Could he be looking for us?” James asked.

Silver sniffed at the air like a bloodhound. “The port,” he finally said. “He’d been ready to set sail for Nassau for weeks. He'd only held off for Eleanor.”

They had remounted their horses, and turned towards the water, James following Silver down the unfamiliar streets.

“He would run then? Like a fucking coward?” James scowled, eyes attempting to pierce the veil of darkness that had descended over the harbor.

Silver returned the scowl with surplus. “He’s got nothing to stay here for.”

“There!” James spotted her, the brigantine moving under full sail away from the harbor. Silver pulled a spy-glass out of his coat and brought it to his eye. “Is it him?”

“A thousand bloody fucks!”

“Then we are too late,” James whispered, deflated. 

“Are you terribly disappointed or a bit relieved?” Silver asked, turned in the saddle towards him.

James emitted a small laugh. “A bit of both, I suppose. We owed Rogers a debt of vengeance. At the same time…”

“At the same time, you’re glad not to have to dirty your hands with his perfidious blood?”

“Something of the sort, yes.”

James reached out and Silver silently placed the spy-glass into his hand. A moment passed between them that was too much like a multitude of moments that they had shared back in the West Indies. James lifted the spy-glass and looked at the ship that was carrying Rogers away, back towards Nassau, and hopefully out of their lives forever. It did not surprise him to find the Governor on the quarterdeck, his own spy-glass pointed in their direction.

“It can’t be safe for any of us to remain here any longer,” James said, lowering the spy-glass. “He might send word, even from Nassau.”

Silver shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Do you hate me?”

“Hate you?”

“Yes. For lying… and for Eleanor?”

James’ hands fiddled with the spy-glass still in his grasp. “Tell me why you did it and I’ll tell you if I hate you.”

“I thought it was obvious why I did it,” Silver fidgeted again.

“I want you to say it.”

Silver took a deep breath and brought his horse about so he could look James in the eyes as he spoke. “I did it for the same reason I’ve done anything since I’ve known you. I did it because I needed to protect you.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you, you fucking bastard!”

James smiled and handed the spy-glass back to Silver. “I don’t hate you either,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

“Home?” Silver lifted his face up to look into the turbulent sea of James’ eyes that bore into the very core of his soul, such as it was. 

“Yes. Come home with me, John. No more living alone in Purgatory. If I must bow to my fate of idyllic country living, I want to be there with you.” James held his breath, waiting for Silver to formulate a reply. “Besides,” he added, “I don't think sea air is good for my constitution. Or yours.”

Silver swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Fuck, James. Purgatory or Hell, you know I'll follow you anywhere.” He was thankful for the cover of darkness for hiding the blush that crept up his cheeks. “What about… my wife?”

James laughed and reached out to rub his thumb gently against Silver’s swollen lower lip. “I suppose she should come too. My daughter will need other companions her age. Tell me, John, does your wife enjoy gardening?”

***

**Box, Gloucestershire, 17--**

Summer had come to the Cotswolds again, with its cornucopia of blooms that adorned every garden, portico, and windowsill. Morning glory that crept over the fence to greet the next door neighbors, that Max liked to gather into garlands and make flower crowns for Eleanor, Queen of the Beehive. 

Nothing much had changed in Box since they had purchased the local tavern from the ever-more-grateful Widow Creed. Whereas at first, there had been some murmurs involving the unexpected arrival from Bristol of Cousin John and his missus, talk of skin tone soon gave way to talk of Max’s beauty and charm, and talk of the menacing peg leg soon paved the way for conversation about how magnanimous Mr Matthews was to take care of his invalid nephew so selflessly.

Said nephew could be found out back in the garden, lounging upon a quilt that had been a gift to Eleanor from Miss Turner, no longer a Miss and no longer a Turner as fate would have it, but a dear friend nonetheless. Though nowhere as dear as Cousin Max, of course.

“I am telling you, it does not get hot enough here to grow proper tomatoes,” James was expounding to Eleanor, who carried the basket with the seeds and the trowels for tending to the vegetable patches. “The ones we tried to grow last year were barely the size of your thumb and never ripened properly.”

“Why, James,” Silver purred from the quilt in the sunlight, “If you need me to make it hotter around here for you, just say the words.”

“Why..,” James began, “are you totally naked?”

“I did not wish to get a tan line,” Silver replied with a smirk and winked at Eleanor who stared mutely at his exposed manhood.

James sighed and glanced helplessly at Eleanor, who simply shrugged. “He’s _your_ husband, isn’t he?”

“You’re going to cause us to lose all the help,” James attempted, half-heartedly.

“Darling, you no longer need the help. I’m here!” Silver grinned up at James, his azure eyes sparkling like jewels against the backdrop of the garden. “Or have you forgotten, my love?”

James and Eleanor glanced at each other as if seeking desperate aid and uttered with one voice, “ _What_?”

“I am an excellent cook,” Silver said with a wink.

***

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few "historical" notes:
> 
> 1\. The book on the History of Pyrates that Silver wrote here is an actual book that was written by some bloke who called himself "Captain Charles Johnson" but to this day no one knows who it really is (until now, obviously ;) )  
> 2\. I could not very well kill Rogers because of history (*shakes fist at history*) but it should please at least some of you to know that he died a few years after reaching the West Indies again, in 1732. His health sucked and he suffered greatly, which should please Silver.  
> 3\. Pew, Anderson, and Israel Hands are all characters in _Treasure Island_. Sadly, it could not have been written by Silver unless this is also a secret vampire!AU.  
>  4\. Box is a real place in the Cotswolds! The Beehive is still there. I got the names of many of the residents (including the Lusty boys) from early 20th century photos of actual Box residents just because it amused me to do so. (Sorry, citizens of Box!)

**Author's Note:**

> And there it is! Hope you all enjoyed my pre-season 4 coping mechanisms. Comments are like air and always welcome. *heart eyes*


End file.
